The Oddities
by 221blackandwhitestripes
Summary: In a world were people are divided into three groups; Dociles, Herculeans and Oddities, Sherlock has to learn to accept his nature and must try to find some one who will accept him too.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Pounding heart, quick breaths. Clammy fingers shaking, fluttering, never landing. A name called. Not his, not yet. Sherlock had known all year this day would come, but why now? It's too soon, too soon. His eyes dart this way and that, picking up everything but not seeing. Who was he, what was he? It will determine his fate for the rest of his life. Sherlock felt like he was choking, dying, his life spinning out of control. There were three options, but he couldn't control fate. The long argument of nature and nurture. It all adding up to right here, right now.

Sherlock heard his named called, understandable with a name starting with H. He made his way shakily to the stage, wondering the whole time who he was going to disappoint. All his family were different, his mother a Docile, his father an Oddity and his brother a Herculean. He could be anything. After arriving at the middle of the stage, Sherlock looks out at the crowd. He knew his family was there somewhere but, with the bright lights and the fogginess in his head, he couldn't see a thing.

His legs felt like jelly no matter how hard he tried to keep them firmly planted on the stage. Sherlock barely felt the pinch as the attendant pricked his finger and smeared it across a pad. His blood seeming to check out he was lead to the front of the stage, feet shuffling beneath him.

"Sherlock Holmes. Oddity." A voice announced over the loudspeaker. Applause erupted from the crowd completely overpowered by the loud cheers and roars of excitement from the front left section of the arena. At least some people were happy that Sherlock was an Oddity. Because, no matter what people say, Oddities might as well be the scum of the Earth. Dociles were the cute, soft, small people that everybody cherished. They were the kind of people who seem to love everything and in turn were loved by all. And then there were the Herculeans. Herculeans automatically get brownie points for simply being who they are. Strong, athletic and all around Dominant. They were the classic Disney hero stereotype, saving everybody with no effort at all. It didn't seem to matter that most Herculeans were decidedly average at best. Society still continuously twisted each and every one of them into something amazing.

And that was the problem. Because Sherlock was neither of those. He was an Oddity. Part of the group of people who couldn't fit in either category so they were plonked together to make one huge one. Although, statistically speaking, there was a much lower percentage of Oddities than either Dociles of Herculeans,the world hardly treated them like something rare or to be valued. More like a disease that unfortunately affects a few but something they could ignore and despise all the same. And now, Sherlock was one of them.

He shakingly began to walk across the stage, heading for the stairs leading to the left aisle. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock felt himself hit each step, lowering himself further, stepping closer and closer to his new life. To the person he'd become in the space of two minutes. And as he sat down, he felt every hope he had ever had sunk down with him.

Sherlock spat the remaining blood out of his mouth, watching curiously for a moment as the bold red darkened when it mixed with the layer of grime covering the linoleum of the hallway floors. Hesitantly, he lifted his hand to gently push against his right cheek. He immediately winced, pulling away and trying to control the spark of sharp pain flowing through his head.

Sherlock sighed, hanging his head. His gaze dropped to his knees, watching with fascination as idle droplets of salty water splashed against the denim fabric, soaking small spots into it immediately. God, but he'd been such an idiot. How could he have thought that he'd had even a remote chance? But Victor had been right.

Sherlock was just a freak.

"Hey, I'm Michael, but you can call me Mike." Sherlock looked to his left, scrutinizing this "Mike" idly, discerning what he wanted. Judging by his size, glasses and nervous smile, he was most definitely a virgin, same age as Sherlock. His watch was fairly new but inexpensive, meaning his family was obviously in financial difficult, also apparent by his attire. His hair cut was new, however, perhaps four or five days old? Done specially for this occasion, meaning loving and proud parents. Originally from London but relocated a few years ago, judging by his accent and his shoes.

His gaze dropped to the hand stuck out beneath his nose eagerly. After a moment, Sherlock lifted his own hand, shaking firmly and quickly before dropping it as fast as possible.

"Sherlock Holmes." He replied cooly, continuing his previous scrutiny. Mike huffed a laugh.

"Nice to meet you." He smiled. Sherlock hummed in response, directing his stare back to the stage. "Welcome to the Oddities!" Well at least he was welcome.

"Sherlock!?"

Sherlock dragged his gaze up from his legs, settling on Mike's harried form, concern and fear stricken across his face.

"Ah, Mike. Nice of you to join me." Sherlock answered blearily, Nodding at him before returning his gaze downward.

"W-what… What…?" Mike stammered, arms waving around as he searched for an explanation.

"Would you like to throw a punch to?" Sherlock asked, smirking as he watched another drop land on his knee. "This would be the opportune time after all. Like those birds in Africa who feed off a lion's prey after it's done with it. Picking at the carcass scraps. That's what I am now aren't I?" Sherlock swung his head up, staring at Mike and feeling another tear slip from his eye. "Scraps." It came out broken and cracked, and Sherlock finally allowed everything to spill over. Sob after sob racking his body, shaking through his ribs, breaking his Sherlock.

"Oh, Sherlock." Those same words sung in a sing-song voice, echoing round and round his head. Except this time they were filled with genuine pity and that was too much, he couldn't stand it.

"No! You don't get to stand there feeling sorry for me. This -This is nothing. I am Fine! Do you understand? I won't have to live my life stuck next to someone else, hanging off their side like a parasite. I am **free**. And that is so much better than what _he_ could have given me."

"Yes, but, Sherlock..." Mike started.

"What?! What do you want. You have everything you want. You've got Cassie, who you bloody adore, and you _have_ her." Sherlock spat. "She's pregnant for Christ's sake. And nobody even knows!"

"Sherlock?"

"Well, nobody except me." Sherlock grinned menacingly at Mike. "Now you're saddled with everything I despise and you will learn to hate. And _you_ feel sorry for _me_? Ridiculous." Sherlock slowly shifted his hands until he was leaning against them, pushing off and using a hand against the locker to bring himself to a standing position. He began to hobble slowly toward the nurse's office, leaning heavily against the wall as he struggled to keep going.

"Sherlock!" Mike protested.

"Don't bother, Mike." Sherlock barked. "Don't bother."

Sherlock was used to rude interruptions during his morning locker run. Even before he was proclaimed an Oddity, Sherlock often couldn't go two mornings in a row without at least a slap to the back of the head or a kick to the shin. But that was nothing compared to what happened during one Monday morning a few weeks into the new term.

Sherlock had been minding his own business, searching through some clutter in order to find his history book which was much too small and always seemed migrate to the absolute worst place in his locker, making it very difficult to find. Out of nowhere, a sharp throbbing pain shot up his leg. Sherlock gasped, eyes shooting down to see a small terrier latched onto his leg and seemingly trying to chew through it. Sherlock immediately began to kick and shake his leg, trying desperately to dislodge it. The dog merely bit harder, swinging with Sherlock's kicks and beginning to draw blood.

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry." Came a voice from beside Sherlock, astonishment and remorse warring through their words. Sherlock looked up to see a young man with Curly brown hair and even browner eyes staring at him. He wore expensive jeans, but not new ones so he was wealthy but not wasteful. His light blue button down shirt was just balancing on the edge of casual and classy, so he was used to dressing to impress.

"Aren't you going to help me?" Sherlock hissed, waving his leg and the dog attached to it at him.

"Oh -oh yes, of course. Sorry. Sorry." The man stammered, bending to gently pry the dog's teeth open and away from Sherlock's smarting leg. Sherlock hissed, bending down to cup the wound and wipe away the small dots of blood that had pricked at the surface.

"Ow!" The two winced together. Sherlock glanced at him to see the man blushing slightly and shrugging his shoulders.

"That looks like it hurts." The man said as some kind of explanation. "I really am very sorry." He repeated.

"Yes, you said that." Sherlock snapped, rubbing at his leg in a way that was no help at all.

"Maybe I could repay you? I could perhaps buy you some lunch or maybe something else. I do apologise." The man continued to stare at him, watching him intently for any sign of distress. "I am Victor, by the way. Victor Trevor."

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock replied blandly. "And, for the record, Victor, all I require right now is a hand up and some help to the nurse's office."

"I can do that." Victor replied with a nervous smile. Gently, Victor reached out his hand, taking hold of Sherlock's and dragging him up before pausing, both their hands locked together in each other's grasp. Together they stared down at their hands as a thin thread of golden light wove itself around each of their wrists before stringing together and connecting in the middle.

"Victor Trevor, Docile."

"Sherlock Holmes, Oddity." Sherlock grinned at Victor. "And I think I will take you up on that lunch." The two of them stood like that for a while until Sherlock's leg started hurting again and Victor began helping him towards the nurse's office.

"So, _Victor,_ " Sherlock rolled the name around his mouth like a boiled sweet. "What's with the dog?" Victor had pulled out a leash and clipped it onto the terrier's collar and it was now trotting along happily beside them as they made their way through the halls.

"Must've snuck into the back seat of my car. _Again_. He's always doing shit like that. And when I opened the door to get my bag he just jumped out and ran for it. He really is very mischievous. So I followed him as best I could and that's when I found you." Victor smiled at him, continuing with a shrug. "You know the rest.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

Except that it wasn't. That became very clear very quickly to Sherlock as soon as Victor's fist connected to the bone of his cheek, sending the back of his head against the locker door behind him with a sickening crack. But, for the full story, one has to go back a bit.

"Hello, Mike." Sherlock greeted the man as he sat down next to him, setting his history book down on the desk in front of him.

"Sherlock?" Mike asked confusedly.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"What's going on? You're all…" Mike trailed off with a shrug. "Happy?"

"Happy? Am I not usually happy?" Sherlock speculated.

"No, you're not." Mike stated blandly, ignoring Sherlock's glare in response.

"I've met someone." Sherlock decreed, choosing to ignore Mike's earlier remark.

"Really!" Mike gasped, snapping his mouth shut when the students around them sshed the two angrily. "Who?" He whispered.

"My Pair, Victor Trevor." Sherlock announced with another small smile.

"You met one of your pairs?!" Mike marvelled, followed by hisses all around him and a stern glance from the teacher at the front of the class. "What is he?" He asked, voice lowered to a whisper once more.

"A Docile." Sherlock stated almost curiously. Sherlock hadn't really thought about it but for some reason he had never imagined being paired with a Docile. He supposed it made sense with Sherlock's superior mind but it didn't stop Sherlock from feeling a little uneasy. Some pairings were well known for ending badly due to lack of compatibility. In fact, Sherlock had studied several murder cases from the late eighteenth century that had been the direct cause of bad pairings gone wrong. But, now that he thought about it, those pairings had gone wrong for very different reasons. Victor and Sherlock were definitely very different from that.

"Just be careful, Sherlock." Mike's voice broke through Sherlock's thoughts. "I don't want you getting hurt. You know how fragile some pairings can be."

"Don't worry, we'll be fine." Sherlock lamented. "Absolutely fine."

"You see, Sherlock, it's a matter of principle. My father would just be much happier with his son being paired with a Herculean than an Oddity. I didn't see the harm in it." Victor explained, clicking on the turn signal as the car came to a stop at a traffic light.

"So, you _lied_ to him?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Well… yes. I didn't want to go disappointing him." Victor tried to reason.

"That didn't stop me looking like a complete idiot in front of everyone at that party when I told him I'm an Oddity!" Sherlock shouted.

"I admit that that was very unfortunate but how was I supposed to know he was going to bring it up? Besides, I thought that if he did that you'd just say you're a Herculean anyway. Really not my fault when you think about it." Victor pointed out.

"You wanted me to _**pretend**_!"Sherlock snarled, watching with satisfaction as Victor visibly flinched at his tone. "You're ashamed of me." Sherlock murmured in shock, tone suddenly quiet in the still silence of the car. "You're ashamed of me, aren't you?!" Sherlock shouted.

"What? Of course not. You're being ridiculous." Victor denied.

"You _are_ , aren't you." When Victor failed to reply, Sherlock huffed, opening his door and stepping out.

"Where are you going?" Victor asked indignantly.

"Anywhere but here!" Sherlock shouted back at him, slamming the door behind him and storming across the road, ignoring the curious glances of the other driver in their cars as the stepped onto the footpath.

Sherlock didn't fully remember everywhere he walked that night but by the time he was back home it was well past twelve o'clock and dipping into the early hours of the morning, just before the break of dawn. But Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to care how long he'd been up. All he could focus on was the horrible feeling in his stomach that sat like a lead weight. Sherlock slowly recognised the feeling as he let it take him over. And, inch by inch, he was filled with harsh, pure dread.

"So, this is me." Victor announced, dropping his keys on the little dish beside the door.

"It's nice." Sherlock remarked. Although, truthfully, nice was going a bit too far for the small bedsit he was standing in. perhaps _comfortable_ or, if you're lucky, _homely_.

"I'm glad you think so." Victor smirked before stalking towards Sherlock and crashing their lips together. Sherlock failed to close his eyes for a few seconds due to shock but after a bit during which Victor continued to move his lips against his, he finally allowed them to close. That was his first kiss and Sherlock decided it was very different than he'd expected. He didn't quite know what to make of it.

"Is this okay?" Victor asked as he gently guided Sherlock backwards until the back of his kees met the edge of the bed.

"U-Uh, yeah." Sherlock answered wearily, not quite sure what was happening. It became clear quite immediately as he watched Victor lift his shirt up and over his head before flinging it at the ground. Victor began stroking Sherlock hair as he coaxed him into another kiss, beginning to unbutton Sherlock's shirt for him. Sherlock gasped quietly as Victor slowly undid his belt, pulling the zipper of his trousers down too. And, strangely, all Sherlock could think was that this was definitely not the kind of homework he'd imagined doing when Victor had invited him over.

"Hey, Sherl." Victor greeted as he walked into the room, closing the bathroom door behind him. Sherlock sighed, having long ago given up on telling Victor that his name was _Sherlock_ and not _sherl_.

"Morning Victor." He greeted in turn, walking towards the small closet and flicking through until he found one of his dress shirts. Pulling it off the hanger, he regarded Victor questionly as he heard the other man sigh.

"We really need to get you some better clothes." He stated.

"But I like the ones I have." Sherlock said confusedly.

"Yeah, but they're all the same." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest because, in fact, most of his dress shirts were _quite_ different, but was cut off by Victor as he sighed. "You know what I mean." He continued to watch Sherlock silently as he got dressed before seeming to come to a decision. "We can go shopping on Wednesday. My dad has this thing on Saturday and I promised that I'd finally bring you 'round to meet him."

"Okay."

"Wow." Victor breathed. "That was great."

"Was it?" Sherlock asked. IT was strange and very different from the small amount he'd learnt in biology lessons.

"Don't worry, you were brilliant." Victor assured him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "We have to do this more often."

"Okay."

"Victor." Sherlock announced his presence.

"Oh. Hey, Sherl." Victor greeted turning from the small huddle his group of friends had made by the lockers. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "What's wrong, Sherl?"

"Don't ' _Sherl_ ' me!" Sherlock snarled, pushing Victor's hand away when he tried to rest it on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock, _relax_. What are you so huffed up about?" Victor drawled, chuckling a little at Sherlock's furious expression.

"You see, _Victor_ , as far as I'm concerned I would find it common courtesy to _tell_ your pair that you've found someone else, rather than waiting around and going _behind their back._ " Sherlock fumed.

"What do you mean, Sherl?" Victor asked, slinging his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and leaning in close. "You know that you're the only guy for me."

"Shut up, _shut up_." Sherlock shouted, drawing the attention of the students around them. "I saw you with her." Sherlock whimpered. "I _saw_ you. And all this time, I thought I was _so_ lucky. But here I am again." Sherlock's sudden sniffing was muffled by the sound of the bell ringing, sending the students around them into a mad dash to their class and leaving only Sherlock, Victor and his friends in the empty hallway.

Sherlock didn't know precisely what tune he was whistling to, only that it was a happy was something positive in the air and Sherlock had the distinct feeling that today was going to be great.

Sherlock walked through the school doors, still whistling his tune. He began the walk through the halls, rounding the corner to the senior section of the lockers. And, all at once, he froze. He couldn't tell if his heart was in his mouth or his feet, everything rose and dropped at the same time. There was a rushing sound in his ears as his blood pounded in his head. Sherlock took the time to blink the sudden moisture from his eyes and focus on the sight before him once more. It was Victor, that much he was sure of. He was wearing the scarf that Sherlock had given him on his birthday a few weeks ago. The woman whose tongue was down his throat, however, wasn't anyone Sherlock knew. She had long blond hair and a skirt that sat much too high. Clear daddy issues, searching desperately for affection. Tried her best to look pretty every morning but ended up putting on way to much makeup and perfume. Of course, pointing out her faults didn't seem to be making anything feel better.

"Oh, Sherlock." Victor admonished, chuckling quietly at him. "What did you think? That we'd ' _spend the rest of our lives together_ '? Were you really that thick?" Sherlock swallowed thickly, resisting the urge to look down at his feet as he shuffled them around. Victor tutted quietly. "Now, now, Sherlock. You know better than that. I deserve much better than you." Sherlock wondered how he could be taller than Victor but at the same time feel so small.

"Why?" He asked struggling to control his vocal cords as they threatened to make his voice fragile and shaky.

" _Why_?" Victor bellowed out a harsh laugh, looking back at his friends as they snickered with him. "Oh, Sherlock. Don't you see? Are you blind? You're an _Oddity_. Did you really think you'd be enough? Now, I might just be a Docile but I will always be better than you." Victor ended, his voice rising into a high, sing-song tone.

"I… I don't understand. What… What did I do to _you_?" Sherlock asked, his breathing becoming more shallow as his brain when into overload, picking up everything. The smell of that _woman_ still lingering on Victor's skin, the friend directly behind Victor cracking his knuckles, the pattern of scars on the hands of the man on the far left, must have a fishmonger for a dad. It flew away very quickly, however, when Victor began to speak.

" _Sherlock_ , It wasn't what you _did_. It's much easier than that. It's simply who you are. Which is nothing. You couldn't possibly hope to become anything, certainly not anything in comparison to my family's wealth and status. You are simply a poor little shrimp who doesn't understand when I say _**I don't care**_. Stop being so miserable, Sherlock. It's much too dramatic for anyone."

When Sherlock was ten years old, he fell out of a tree and broke his ankle. He had cried. And while mummy and daddy had fussed around him, crooning and telling him it would be okay, all Sherlock could think about was his tears. Later that week, Sherlock had gone upstairs into his room, crutches assisting him up the tall stairway. He'd locked his door and grabbed his microscope. Then, quietly, he pressed the heel of his hand against the bruised and splintered bone, the other hand wrapped around his mouth to contain the shout of pain. Tears filled his eyes instantly before slowly dripping down his cheeks. Sherlock had scraped the liquid into a small test tube, pleased with his work.

The following three days were spent running tests and examining compounds under his microscope. He was fascinated by everything, the natural ratio of water to sodium, the salt compound, the reaction to different chemicals. Sherlock had deemed tears extremely interesting, saving every scrap of data to his hard drive.

So when Sherlock felt silent tears slip from his eyes, running down his cheeks and dripping from his chin, he could have explained each detail of them, the make up, the ratio, the acidity, the level of hydroxide. But he didn't. Because no one cared.

"Sherlock, you really need to learn to control your feelings." Victor smiled, the lines of his teeth gleaming menacingly.

Sherlock saw it coming. It was hardly surprising. Yet, when Victor's fist smashed against his cheekbone, his body recoiled in shock. Sherlock's head connected with the locker door first, the smack deafening in the quiet of the hallway. The rest of his body followed soon after, hips and shoulders slamming into the cold metal with equal force.

His ears rang as he slowly pulled his suddenly extremely heavy head up from the locker. His vision was softly blurred, two Victors grinning in front of him before he blinked them into focus.

"Don't bother, Vic. We'll take it from here." The knuckle-cracking friend announced with a growl.

Sherlock chuckled darkly, resting his head against the locker behind him once more. "Trust a Docile like you to get someone else to fight your battles." Sherlock spat.

"Why, you little…" Victor started, taking step closer to him threateningly.

"Easy, easy, Vic." Knuckle-cracker urged, pressing a hand against Victor's chest to pull him back. "We got this."

It took one second to deduce where he was going to aim, another to brace himself and two more to wait for the inevitable impact. The punch to his gut was strong and sharp, Sherlock unable to stop the instinctive cough escaping him. The next was a kick to the back of his knee, another of Victor's mates having circled around and behind him, causing Sherlock to collapse on one knee. The next was one strong, forceful blown to his chin, sending him sprawling onto his back, his head hitting the linoleum floor with a dull thud. Then it was kick after kick, too many to track and way too many to count.

Sherlock entered something like a trance, aware of the pain but so consumed by it that he didn't feel it anymore. It was fascinating, in a way. He couldn't ignore the pain yet, every time he tried to focus on it, his brain went so fuzzy and dim that he couldn't feel it anymore.

Sherlock was so preoccupied with controlling the pain that he didn't notice that the kicks had suddenly stopped.

"That's enough." A voice called, smug but hesitant, verging on afraid. "Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ " The voice called in a sing-song tone, suddenly much closer than before, breath hit sherlock's face and disorientating him further. Sherlock slowly lifted the lids of his eyes, taking a moment to focus on the scene around him and to wonder when he closed them in the first place. "You see, Sherlock" The voice continued, one Sherlock now recognised as Victor's nasally drawl. "Oddity is just a polite word for freak. That's all you are. A freak. And this is just what freaks deserve. You can't blame me for that now can you? **Can you?** " Victor shouted the last question in his ear, Sherlock wincing in response and shaking his head to clear it. "Thought so." Victor smile, rising from his stoop and beckoning his friends as he walked away.

Sherlock's eyes followed for a moment, watching them round the corner and continue down the hall. Sighing, Sherlock slowly curled his knees into his chest, using a slippery hand against the lockers beside him as leverage to pull himself up. Sherlock settled himself with his back pressed against the lockers, knees still drawn up.

Sherlock spat the remaining blood out of his mouth, watching curiously for a moment as the bold red darkened when it mixed with the layer of grime covering the linoleum of the hallway floors. Hesitantly, he lifted his hand to gently push against his right cheek. He immediately winced, pulling away and trying to control the spark of sharp pain flowing through his head.

Sherlock sighed, hanging his head. His gaze dropped to his knees, watching with fascination as idle droplets of salty water splashed against the denim fabric, soaking small spots into it immediately. God, but he'd been such an idiot. How could he have thought that he'd had even a remote chance? But Victor had been right.

Sherlock was just a freak.


	2. Chapter 2

136 days. After that he would be free. 62 of them were either a weekend or holiday. That made 74. 74 days. That's not bad. It's not like Sherlock had that many classes with _him_. 8 classes a week. That's 6 hours and 40 minutes. 400 minutes in total. 24000 seconds a week. As long as Sherlock doesn't bump into _him_ , he only had to see _him_ for 249600 seconds for the rest of his life.

The first day was bad. But that was okay, Sherlock hadn't expected anything different. It was the days after it that were worse. Simply because they were all just as bad as the first. Sherlock had hoped the pain would fade away like the bruises and cracked ribs had begun heal. But they didn't. So Sherlock continued to trudge along, misery following him like a giant storm cloud over his head that refused to disappear.

But over time, Sherlock learned to live with it. It didn't exactly go away, instead merely became background information, white noise that was simply there. Sherlock wasn't sure how, but life became easier. Sherlock simply decided to put matters of the heart behind him. He didn't need them anymore. Sherlock would sometimes pass Victor in the hall and the venomous hiss of " _freak_ " would momentarily bring the pain roaring to the front of his mind but that was it. Sherlock was fine.

He even made up with Mike, or rather Mike said he was still Sherlock's friend and Sherlock simply said he was happy to keep it that way. At least Sherlock wasn't alone. He wasn't happy but he wasn't alone. That helped a bit.

Soon, Sherlock became deadened to the pain, almost like one stopped noticing how they only have one arm after they lost the other. It didn't even rear its ugly head when the hiss of " _freak_ " occasionally followed him down the hall. Sherlock continued to count the seconds, minutes, hours, days. But it no longer mattered.

One day, during the weekend between day 44 and 43, there was a loud knock on the door of Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock sighed, dragging himself from his desk chair and the very important experiment he was doing, to unlock and open the door. He stared at the figure behind it for a long moment.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock greeted in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here, brother mine, to offer you a place in Bart's College on behalf of the board." Mycroft stated simply, smiling blandly at Sherlock while twirling his umbrella.

"You mean that you're here to _tell_ me to go to _your_ school." Sherlock surmised, pleased when Mycroft's smile turned sour, confirming his suspicions. "Why should I? What's in it for me?"

"Well, for one thing, it's one of the top institutes in Britain, it's ranked as the number one Oddity friendly campus in England and is world renowned for…" Mycroft ranted, listing things off on his fingers.

"As if I care about all that, Mycroft. What's really in it for me?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised. Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Mummy and Daddy want you to go to University, brother mine. I simply believe that Bart's is the perfect place for you. You have been offered a place to stay within the campus that has a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. And, in return for your cooperation, Mummy has agreed to loosen the purse strings on your trust fund By a couple of years." Mycroft explained exasperatedly. "Seem fair?"

"Why do you want me to go to your stupid school anyway?" Sherlock asked, folding his arms against his chest.

"It is not _my_ stupid school as you so eloquently put it, brother mine. I simply occupy a minor position on the board of trustees. Besides, I'm much too occupied by government work to be contributing much to my little hobbies, what with elections and such coming up. No, I simply would find it very reassuring to have you keeping an eye on it while I'm busy." Mycroft elaborated, shifting the umbrella back and forth between his hands uneasily. Sherlock was silent for a very long moment, scrutinizing every inch of Mycroft beneath heavy eyebrows.

"I'll think about it." Sherlock decided at last and immediately slammed the door in Mycroft's face, ignoring his indignant squawk of protest.

"Are your bags packed, brother mine?" Mycroft inquired smugly. He had been like that ever since Sherlock had announced his agreement to Mycroft's proposal and Sherlock absolutely hated it.

"Of course they are, Mycroft." Sherlock growled exasperatedly, gesturing to the bags and boxes of clothes, books and everything else.

"Then the car is awaiting you." Mycroft informed him.

"Great." Sherlock replied sarcastically, grabbing a box before pushing past his brother and down the stairs. It didn't take long to fill up the car's enormous boot with all of his belongings, Sherlock sighing gratefully as the last box was packed in.

"I suppose this is goodbye, brother mine." Mycroft ventured, looking down his nose at him.

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit, Mycroft. You're going to visit me every chance you get now I'm living in London." Sherlock spat, not buying Mycroft's slightly nostalgic smile for a second.

"You're quite correct, brother mine." Mycroft grinned, teeth gleaming like a shark's. He was clearly pleased with this new establishment, which only made Sherlock regret it more. But the truth was that he was lucky to get accepted into Bart's. He could study all the courses he was interested in; anatomy, chemistry, botany. Sherlock had even decided to study the psychology of the secondary gendered mind, a special class that all genders studied separately, meaning Sherlock would be in a room full of only Oddities.

So instead of making a snarky comment, Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and opened the door of the car before getting in. He blew out another sigh as the sound of frantic tapping against the car window filled the air. Sherlock groaned aloud, rubbing at his temples and wondering if he'd ever get some peace and quiet as he rolled the window down.

"Yes?" He asked harshly.

"We just wanted to wish you luck! We're so proud of our little boy, all grown up." Mummy babbled excitedly.

"Uh, thanks, Mummy." Sherlock replied hesitantly, shifting his eyes this way and that. His father walked up next to her, leaning his head in close.

"Do what you can when you're young, Sherlock, that's all I can say. Me and your mother both know you are incredibly talented. I'm sure you'll do this family justice." Daddy said. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to say to that, opting to nod instead.

"Are you ready to leave, Master Holmes?" The driver in the front seat asked.

"Go ahead Lionis." Sherlock instructed, leaning back in his plush leather seat as the car roared to life and began to drive away.

Sherlock looked around his room thoughtfully, inspecting the beige curtains and the slightly old carpet. Mycroft hadn't lied, it was rather generous boarding for one person. Sherlock had been surprised really. It was very strange for the oddity wing to have such high quality rooms. Sherlock could only suspect that the majority of the board and deans were oddities too. It didn't stop him from believing that the Herculean and even the Docile wings had much better rooms to offer, however.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock flopped himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms tucked behind his head. The paint was the same ugly beige as the curtains and was peeling a bit. Sherlock decided he'd have to find something to cover it up. Perhaps he could try his hand at painting? Looking down, Sherlock stared at the boxes piled up at the foot of the bed. It was going to be a long day.

"... In which the passage swells. Again, this only occurs in male Dociles and Oddities if their true pair is Herculean and they have bonded. That is, however, extremely unlikely as you all know. Now, Herculean females…"

"... Psst!" A hiss distracted Sherlock from his scrawled notes, breaking his concentration. Surprised, he glanced to his left to see a slight, mousy haired girl leaning in closer to him from one empty chair over. "Can I borrow a pencil?"

Sherlock stared at his small pencil case for a moment before turning back to eye the girl distrustfully. "Will you give it back?" He asked doubtfully.

"Promise." The girl answered eagerly. "I'm Molly, by the way, Molly Hooper." she introduced herself.

"Hello, Molly." Sherlock stated rather than greeted.

"And you are?" She prompted.

"Sherlock. Holmes." Sherlock told her.

"Nice to meet you." she said cheerily. Sherlock grimaced, turning back to the front to focus once more.

"...Of course this occurs naturally. The process is known as the recast, as you are all well aware of, but the scientific term is…"

"Oh, hello again." Said a bright voice behind him. Sherlock's insides froze, his breath quickening and his heart pumping harder.

 _Oh, hello._ Victor's snide voice sending shivers down Sherlock's spine, his hand creeping into the curls at the back of his head and pulling roughly. A coward's move but Sherlock's expecting nothing less from Victor. _Hello, freak's here._ His voice echoing through his skull, bouncing, misshaping, turning into something else, a monster's evil growl. _What are you doing here, Sherlock? I figured an Oddity like you didn't need English. Don't you only speak freak?_ Sniggering from Victor's friends around him. Remembering to breathe. Breathing, breathing breathing. Breathing's boring. Oh no, breathing too fast. Can't stop, can't stop, can't stop cantstop cantstop cantstopcantstopcantstop

"Sherlock?" Back again. Oh. Classroom. Small for a small class. Not many Oddities take psychology of the secondary gendered mind. Oh. Person behind him. Said hello. Not Victor.

Sherlock didn't know whether to be relieved or embarrassed. Shifting slowly in his seat, he turned to see that the voice had only belonged to Molly. Meek little Molly. Odd, though. This class was only for Oddities. He'd assumed she was a Docile. Must've missed something. Oops, he'd been silent for too long. Had to say something.

"Hello, Molly." He greeted, his voice cracking terribly. Sherlock quickly disguised it with a cough, trying to work his throat muscles as he swallowed roughly.

"Sherlock, I didn't know you were taking PSGM!" Molly squealed, seeming to ignore Sherlock's struggle and the hard glare thrown her way from the teacher up front.

"I didn't know you were an Oddity." Replied honestly, looking her up and down once more. He was quite thrown, actually. He didn't like it very much.

"Well, I didn't know you were an Oddity either, silly." Molly giggled, obviously not understanding what he meant.

"Must not help with your Daddy issues. Being the black sheep of the family. The Oddity, the _disappointment_." Sherlock commented, keeping his voice light but his words harsh.

"Well…" Molly stammered.

"That's why you came here isn't? Moving to London to get away of all those horrible siblings and the father who will never love you back, no matter how hard you try? Running to a place known for acceptance and hospitality in search for someone who will finally love you as much as you love them." Sherlock carried on, his voice seething out of him like lava from a volcano. Molly's eyes were trained on her desk, unshed tears glinting in the florescent lighting. Sherlock turned back to the front, watching the teacher once more but somehow unable to hear a word he said.

"But Sherlock… You're an Oddity too."

 _Oddity is just a polite word for freak._

"I know."

Sherlock didn't understand his hesitance to step through the door to the lecture room. Or, rather, he did and just didn't want to admit what his reasons were just yet. It's just anatomy. It's a large room. In fact he could simply sit somewhere else. The whole "thing" about sitting in the same seat for the whole term was surely just a myth. Definitely.

With this attitude in mind, Sherlock went to push open the door.

"Uh, h-hey, Sherlock." Sherlock froze at Molly quivery voice, his spine tensing as he prepared for anything between a sobbing mess and a good smack in the face. He'd encountered both many times before.

'Look, Sherlock." Molly said with reservation, making Sherlock pivot on his toes in order to see her. "I forgive you about yesterday. It's harder to make new friends in a new environment than anyone thinks, and even I have thought at times that it would all just be easier to push away anyone who tried. But I've found that the times you have the courage to let them stay tend to work out much better than the others. So what do you say? Friends?" She asked, holding out her hand. Sherlock slipped his hand into her's, shaking firmly.

"Friends."


	3. Chapter 3

When it was gonna be a one chapter soulmate fic with a bit of smart but we are three chapters in with no sign of John. Oh well, here it goes.

Sherlock was not often surprised. And, unsurprisingly, wasn't surprised by that. He was, however, completely surprised one rainy Friday morning when, during a conversation Sherlock hadn't been listening to, Molly said "I want us to do a Compatibility Appraise." Sherlock wasn't certain how many minutes he sat there staring but, once he had come back to himself, his eyes were completely dry and he had to blink them several times to dampen them enough to see. Sherlock was well aware what a Compatibility Appraise was. Supposedly, it was very common among " _normal_ " people. If you liked someone and wanted to become " _something more_ " with them, this was the way to go. The process was fairly easy, you simply orchestrated it so, like any pair, you said a chosen word at the same time. Then, when you touched, if a pair string appeared, you just "got together".

Sherlock never did understand that bit. It was extremely common for appraised pairs to go down in flames. But the question he'd always wanted to ask was; what happened if they weren't your pair? Do they simply go back to just being friends? Ignoring the confessions of love and the feelings of heartbreak? Sherlock didn't want that. It was hard to keep onto the friends he had. He didn't want to go and lose another.

"Look Molly, I don't mean to offend, I simply have no interest in… " Sherlock began tactfully.

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Molly interrupted him, confusion written all over her face. "You -you thought that I meant you?" Molly laughed, which Sherlock thought was frightfully rude of her. "Haven't you been listening to me? Oh, Sherlock when will you learn?" Molly shook her head disapprovingly at him, which Sherlock thought was rather patronizing of her.

"Well, then, who on Earth are you talking about?" Sherlock snapped, irritation writing itself into his voice.

"Well, if you'd been listening, you would know I was talking about my new friend Mike who I met in Biology. Who is actually coming here for lunch, as a matter of fact. And, as I was saying, I'm going to ask him if he wants to do a Compatibility Appraise." Molly explained, rolling her eyes at Sherlock like he was something awful.

"Mike" Sherlock repeated, frowning deeply.

"Yes, Mike." Molly sighed exasperatedly.

"What's his last name?" Sherlock asked, already dreading her answer.

"Oh. Well it's… "Molly bagan, confused as to why Sherlock was inquiring in the first place.

"Stamford." A voice behind them finished.

Sherlock and Molly both spun in their chairs to face the voice's owner, Molly's spine cracking beside Sherlock rather obnoxiously.

"Mike?" They asked in unison, Molly's voice filled with joy, Sherlock's filled with utter shock. Two surprises in one sitting was far too much for him, he decided.

Mike chuckled softly, gazing at them both.

"What the _Hell_ are you doing here?" Sherlock spluttered when he was finally able to drag his jaw up from the concrete.

"What are you talking about?" Mike asked him in confusion. "I told you at least sixteen times last year that I was going to Barts. The real question is, what are _you_ doing here? You never mentioned this was where you were going."

"Wait. You two _know_ each other?" Molly asked. Really, she was very slow. Sherlock would have to do something about that.

"We went to highschool together." Mike explained for the both of them.

"Wait." Molly began. "Was he the one who couldn't tell the difference between The Queen and Dolly Parton?" Molly asked excitedly, looking between Sherlock and Mike in delight.

"Yup." Mike answered, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to her. Sherlock glared at them both for their portrayal. That had only been one time and he'd been very distracted that day by _much_ more important things. He had no time to tell the difference between the monarchy and the famous.

"Where's Cassie, Mike?" Sherlock sniped at him, hoping to hit a sore spot.

"Turns out it wasn't my baby." Mike said simply, appearing pretty calm and accepting of the situation.

"Well, I could have told you that." Sherlock snapped, folding his arms against his chest grumpily.

"But you didn't." Mike replied smugly.

"Well, congratulations for not being saddled with another annoying idiot in your life. It would've been much more difficult if there were two of you." Sherlock sniped. Mike simply smiled in response.

"I missed you too, Sherlock." He answered warmly, looking him in the eye. Sherlock dropped his gaze but allowed a small smile to creep onto his face.

The rest of lunch carried on pretty normally, Molly and Mike talking animatedly with each other and Sherlock observing quietly and occasionally contributing a word or to. He was decidedly content.

"Mycroft." Sherlock snarled, disconnecting his bow from the strings of his Violin and placing them lovingly back into their box. It had to be him, of course. That door had definitely been locked and only Mycroft would be that much of an interfering pig to find the key to unlock it and come in without permission. "What do you want?" Sherlock spat, refusing to turn and look at him.

"I require your presence, brother mine." Mycroft proclaimed, his smarmy voice irritating Sherlock to no end.

"Where?" He asked shortly.

"There is a small gathering being held in my honour. The institute's top students are invited. I have been told to invite you." Mycroft explained.

"Meaning there's going to be another of you schmoozing balls with a bunch of bored, average and depressed people and you plan to force me to go." Sherlock reiterated. "Why? You're my brother, shouldn't you spend your time torturing all the average people who keep annoying me?"

"It is this evening, if you care to attend." Mycroft carried on as if Sherlock hadn't spoken.

"I'm sorry but I am unavailable at this time." Sherlock answered snootily, sticking his nose in the air and doing his best Mycroft impression. He flopped onto his bed, back pressed to the soft blankets and eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling. "No, wait, I'm really not sorry at all."

"Oh, I think you will be." Mycroft told him darkly.

"No, I really think I won't." Sherlock growled, turning to face him on the bed and sending him his best glare.

"Ah, but you haven't heard the incentive yet." Mycroft told him.

"What is it?" Sherlock grumbled from between his gritted teeth, his arms folding against his chest.

In response, Mycroft merely gestured to a box lying at his feet. After a momentary battle of wills where the two brothers glared each other down in silence, Sherlock sighed and rolled off his bed. Sherlock bent down and gathered it in his arms, sending Mycroft one last glare before opening it. Sherlock couldn't contain his gasp at the sight of the beautiful instrument in his arms. It was a violin. Sherlock was ready to dismiss it at first, ready to scoff at Mycroft and gesture to the violin he _already_ had and tell them that it worked perfectly well, thank you very much. But that all stopped when he realised what the violin truly was. It was a _masterpiece_. Italian, Amati, at least four centuries old. It smelled of old scotch and sweet rosin. It was in beautiful condition for an instrument that old and, when Sherlock plucked a string, the note rang clear and sweet and _beautiful._ Sherlock had to turn away to hide the sudden and inexplicable tears in his eyes.

"The payment is accepted. I'll be there at nine." He said roughly.

"It starts at eight."

"Eight forty-five."

"No later than eight thirty or I'm taking the violin back." Mycroft threatened sternly.

"Agreed." Sherlock huffed with finality. He didn't turn to look as he heard Mycroft turn the doorknob and exit the room. He remained perfectly still and continued to admire the clean shine of the Violin's wood. And what a magnificent sight it was.

Sherlock was very lucky he'd spent the time admiring the Violin's wood work, otherwise he would have left this party ages ago. Party. If you could call it that. To him, it was just a bunch of uncomfortable people in even more uncomfortable clothes plonked together in one room and forced to interact with each other. That night was truly destined to be terrible.

"Honestly, Sherlock. You've been here five minutes, it can't be that bad." Molly scolded from beside him as she took a sip of her champagne. Sherlock had invited her on a whim, hoping at least she could bring something to liven up this "party". Unfortunately, he had obviously been mistaken.

"I am in a living hell, Molly." He groaned, face silently pleading at her for an excuse to leave. " _Think of the violin, think of the violin"_ he chanted in his head.

"It's not that bad. You are clearly over exaggerating." Molly told him dismissively.

"Oh, this is how I'm going to die, isn't it? I wasn't exactly planning on a noble death but I at least hoped it would be better than this." He moaned, looking skyward in a silent prayer to be released from this place.

"Look, Sherlock, I can't help you. You can either stay here and wallow in self-pity or you can join me on the dance floor. It's up to you." She reasoned. Sherlock's mouth dropped open in offence but, when Molly left to start heading to the dance floor, Sherlock didn't stop himself from following. Molly pulled him into her arms, taking the lead.

"Should Mike be worried?" Sherlock asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow at her as they moved with the music.

"Mike has enough troubles on his own and you're hardly a threat, despite what you seem to think." Molly quipped back at him. Sherlock shook his head at her, unable to contain his smile. Molly was a much better friend than he gave her credit for. It was a wonder she put up with him at all.

Smile still in place, Sherlock looked over Molly's shoulder and accidentally made eye contact with a man by the bar. There was an unsettling moment of awkwardness as Sherlock fumbled between looking away and staring. A blush rose quickly on his cheeks and he had to resist the urge to bury himself in Molly's hair in order to hide it. Suddenly, the man smiled, sending Sherlock's cheeks into an even deeper shade of red, almost reaching vermeulen.

Sherlock watched as the man determinedly downed his drink before starting to make his way across the room. Sherlock's heart sped up in his chest and his breath caught in his throat.

"What's wrong?" Molly whispered but Sherlock ignored her, choosing instead to follow the path the man was taking through the crowd of people. He was getting closer and closer and, just as he was getting near enough for Sherlock to introduce himself, a hand appeared on the man's shoulder. He turned his head to the hand's owner, half listening and clearly distracted before turning fully and saying something urgent. Sherlock couldn't hear the response but he watched as the man listened intently, a rush of dread flooding his eyes. Without a look back, the man turned and fled the room, weaving around people and their drinks like a ship navigating a stormy sea.

Sherlock sighed disappointedly. It was very rare that someone showed interest in him. Oh, well. It probably made sense for the man to rush away like that. Probably his alcoholic sister. Or maybe his mother. She's very sick after all. Just look at the creases in his shirt.

Now Sherlock didn't usually care for sleep, so noises after ten o'clock didn't normally bother him. However, he had been trying to perfect this violin piece for the last three hours. It was inspired by Sherlock's mystery man he'd met a week ago whose eyes had met his across the room. It was also, partly, to prove to Molly that he could, in fact, be spontaneous. He just needed the right occasion.

But he began to find it very difficult indeed when, out of nowhere, harsh sobs started sounding through the walls of his room. Sherlock tried to ignore it, he really did. But there is nothing more irritating than someone interrupting your peace and quiet.

Eventually, he opened the door in a huff, storming out to address this late night cryer. To his surprise, he came face to face with an elderly woman. Sherlock had been expecting another heart broken girl who had lost her way in her drunkenness after drowning her sorrows in whatever alcoholic beverage she could find. No this woman was at least forty, her face buried in weathered hands, her sobs making her gasp for breath due to a weakness in her lungs. She was dressed in a cleaner's uniform, her hair up and away from her face except for a few wispy bits which were falling out. Something about her made his chest hurt a bit, which was rather annoying and something Sherlock took as a bad sign. Sherlock stood there for several moments, contemplating what to do.

"It's alright, love. Don't mind me." The woman's soft voice quaked as she pulled out a handkerchief. Sherlock stared at her for another moment before working up the courage to speak.

"What's wrong?" He asked, trying to make his voice gentle in order to not scare the woman off. She simply waved one hand at him and blew her nose with the other, silently telling him not to bother. "I insist." He said firmly. It wouldn't do to just leave this woman alone and crying. How would he ever be able to get back to his music after that?

"Well, deary, it's a long story." She began. Sherlock inclined his head, indicating for her to continue. "You see, this is not my day job. Usually, I spend my time doing quite different things, quite bad things I must tell you. It was with my husband, you see. And I thought… Well, I thought that if it was the two of us together, it wouldn't matter so much, the bad things. But then… T-Then.." A sob interrupted her monologue and she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief once more. "Have you ever met someone you thought you knew, but they turned out to be completely someone else?" She asked turning to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked her over again, seeing what he hadn't noticed before. Poorly concealed bruises along the side of her cheek and around one of her wrists, yellow and green with signs of previous once from long before. A rip in the sleeve of the dress she wore and a smear of blood on the hem of her pinafore.

Suddenly, he was back there. Kick after kick after endless kick. Spitting out blood and watching it mix with a layer of grime. His head pounding and his heart aching and a never ending loop of _why? Why? Why?_ Circling around and around in his head. He'd thought there was good in Victor. He had been wrong.

"Whatever's happened, whatever he did, I'm going to help you fix it." He assured her determinedly, nodding his head gravely.

"Oh, you are very kind, but I'm not sure you could do anything." The lady told him.

"Just watch me." He replied.

The lady, named Mrs Hudson Sherlock was quick to learn, spent the rest of the night with Sherlock, explaining her situation. Well, she more explained the basics and Sherlock took the liberty to fill in the blanks. Mrs Hudson had married her husband, Charles, at the age of 19. Charles had been 22 at the time. "He was ike charm itself." Mrs Hudson described. "Like an angel had arrived out of nowhere." She sighed deeply. "That's where the warning comes from I suppose." She smiled bitterly at Sherlock. "Be careful who you trust, the devil was once an angel."

She explained how it was more of a whirlwind romance. They met on the off chance at a local dance hall. "He came up to me at my table and we both said hello at the same time." She chuckled sadly. "Of course, I didn't know much about him. The drugs." She explained how they were married a mere four months later. "I didn't get the time to get to know him properly. But I knew it was my duty to love him no matter what. I suppose that's why I did what I did." When Mrs Hudson found out exactly what her husband _actually_ did for a living, she couldn't have been more shocked. "I thought he was salesman. He was always talking in hushed whispers with his friends about stock and other such things." She shook her head slowly. "When I found out what he really did, I agreed to help. Eventually." She winced at a painful memory and sherlock's heart stung more than the unshed tears in his eyes.

"It was exhilarating at first. Sneaking around, hiding from the law. It did wonders to our sex life" She sighed wistfully. "But then, little by little, it became _exhausting_." She turned to Sherlock. "I've been doing this for far too long. I'm an old woman now." She indicated to her frail hand which Sherlock gently took in his. "And then -and then I found out about the killings. About…" She took in a deep shuddering breath as another tear slipped down her cheek. "About the little jobs he'd been doing on the sides. And I don't mean just this year." She shook her head. "No, this has been going on for _years_. And -and then I asked about it and h-he -he…" She began to sob quietly, the pain wracking through her ribs, her whole body shaking with them. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock quietly held her, unsure what to say and deciding to hum instead. He quietly hummed Tchaikovsky into her mousy brown her, stroking it soothingly like his mother used to do for him. She took a few deep breaths before continuing. "I didn't know what to do. I began to pray for a miracle. And then, a couple of nights ago, I found out Charles was holed up in Russia. He'd been caught blowing a man's head off. Except, they can't be too sure because they didn't actually see anything and they haven't been able to gather much evidence. My husbands much smarter than that." She sniffed disparagingly. "And now I've been told that I have to go and testify for him and I -I" She turned to Sherlock. "I want to tell the truth. All of it. But how can I without revealing all I've done? And I'm afraid that if I tell them anything and he still walks free…" She shrugged sadly. "I don't think he's going to stop with a couple of smacks this time."

"When is your husband's trial being held?" Sherlock asked.

"In about six weeks." Mrs Hudson replied.

"Six weeks?" He repeated. Mrs Hudson nodded in reply. "Perfect." He smiled wickedly. "Fear not, Mrs Hudson. I will be able to gather enough evidence that your husband will _not_ survive this trial."

"How?" She asked confusedly. "We have nothing. I don't know where he was staying, who his contact was or even the man he killed."

"Well, first things first, we need to be on the first flight to Russia." He spoke quickly, brushing away Mrs Hudson's Concern. He dove into his pocket and retrieved his phone. It rang once before someone picked it up on the other side.

"Hello, brother dear. You do know that _some_ of us have to have a proper sleep."

"Yes, hello, Mycroft. I was wondering…" He looked to Mrs Hudson's small, hunched over form. "How would you like it if I owed you a favour?"

"Well, well, brother mine. What on earth has brought on this?"

"Oh, you'll see."

Russia was very cold and very white, the light was constantly in his eyes and Sherlock was constantly trying to shove his sunglasses up his nose to protect them. Not ideal conditions at all, but worth it for what he was doing there.

"Are you sure about this? This is really none of your responsibility." Mrs Hudson asked him.

"I'm sure." He replied curtly. He had tried to be reassuring at first but with Mrs Hudson asking the same question at every turn, he'd decided to just keep it blunt. In his right hand was a huge manila folder filled with six weeks worth of work and the damning evidence to make this trial a success. Sherlock would settle for nothing less than a death penalty for this man who had turned the life of the woman next to him into a hell hole. He was going to prove his guilt in every way that he could. _Without_ damning Mrs Hudson.

It wasn't very difficult for Sherlock to play himself off for an adult. He was rather tall and had very serious clothing and tended to talk with the same sense of knowledge and _I'm better than you_ that most adults have. (Except that for Sherlock, of course, it was obviously true.) No one questioned him as to why he was there or who he even was. That was the best place to hide; in plain sight.

"What can I do for you?" The desk clerk asked him in a rough, Russian accent.

"I have urgent business with the prosecution lawyer against Mr Charles Vahn Hudson." Sherlock answered, trying to match the accent as he responded in the man's native tongue.

"Door to left, down the hallway and to your right." The man told him, going back to his bulky computer. Sherlock hurried down the hall, going through the door on the left and heading down the corridor until he reached the door on the right. Sherlock took a big, deep breath before pushing through the door.

"Excuse me, Mr Stepanov. I have something you will be quite interested to see."

"Guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty."

A satisfied smile spread across Sherlock's face before he turned to look at Mrs Hudson. She had burst into tears and was clutching his arm desperately. As if she was trying with all her might to stay tethered to the ground while the rest of her floated up into oblivion.

"Thank you." She whispered, tears rolling down her face. Sherlock patted her hand quietly.

"Your welcome."

"Honestly, Sherlock, how can I possibly repay you?" Mrs Hudson cried.

"No need, Mrs Hudson. Mycroft will take care of you from here. He has a list of job interviews lined up and he'll make sure that you're quite comfortable." Sherlock replied.

"Oh, your heart is just too big!" She exclaimed fondly.

"What heart?" He asked confusedly but Mrs Hudson merely shook her head and tutted at him. He gathered the woman in his arms and allowed her to peck his cheek, smiling softly at how much stronger she'd grown over the six weeks he'd known her.

"I'll miss you, young man." She whispered into his curls.

"I'll miss you too, Mrs H." He whispered back. After a while, they both stepped back, Sherlock kindly ignoring the tears on Mrs hudson's cheeks.

"This isn't the end of it, Sherlock Holmes. You'll see me again quite soon, I should think."

"Of course, Mrs H." He chuckled.

And, of course, he did.


	4. Chapter 4

Enter John Hamish Watson, never of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as I am unable to coordinate that into the story line. Yay!

John Watson had learned long ago to never assume anything about anyone. Whatever their two genders, whatever other people said about them, he had always chosen to never believe the rumours were correct in anyway. But from the moment he met Mycroft Holmes, it seemed that everything anyone had ever told him about the man was utterly and completely right.

The gist of it being that _Mycroft Holmes is a bag of dicks._

"Hello, yes, excuse me, sorry." John murmured politely as he made his way through the crowd of students. "Hello!" He waved his arm frantically, finally drawing the attention of his friend from across the crowd. His face lit up and he began making his own way through the throng to greet him.

"Mike!" He exclaimed happily, pulling him into a big, friendly bear hug.

"John." Mike answered, hugging back just as enthusiastically.

They both pulled back, looking each other over for a while as the silence slowly turned awkward. They both laughed nervously, pushing off the uneasiness.

"It has been a long time." Mike reasoned, cocking his head with a smile.

"You're telling me." John replied easily, slipping his hands into his pockets. He rocked back and forth on his feet, breathing out a sigh. "So… Which building are you staying in?"

"Cooper." Mike replied, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Oh, cool. I can show you where it is, if you like." John offered, cocking his head.

"Yes, thank you." Mike answered. They stood there for a moment before they both burst out into laughter. "Look at the two of us, like two school ninnies; all polite and awkward. Man, I used to be over at your house every second day. Let's just forget about all this crap and get back to being best mates."

"Agreed." John grinned, letting Mike punch his shoulder with a twin grin of his own. He licked his lips. "I'm pretty sure Cooper building's this way." He said, pointing ahead of them before beginning to walk that way.

"Oh, Mister Hot Shot spends two weeks here on honours and suddenly thinks he knows everything." Mike joked, waving his hands about. "We need to do something about that big head of your's."

"Oh, haha. We both know I'm pretty good in that department. Especially compared to most Herculeans." John scrunched up his nose. All those Herculeans giving them a bad name. Those guys were just total dicks.

"Ah, yes. I have met many a man with a balloon for a head. Must make it very difficult to walk anywhere without tipping over." Mike answered seriously, giggling when John slapped his shoulder. "Ah, yes, here comes one now." Mike stuck his nose in the air. John glanced to his left to see a large Bentley pulling into the carpark.

"Quite correct, my good man." He answered with his poshest voice, sticking his own nose into the air with equal measure.

"Oh, Charles, shall I fetch the bags for you?"

"Of course, Augustus. But must I remind you once more; it's sir in public. Charles…" John leaned in close to Mike, whispering conspiratorially. "Is only for when we're _alone_."

"Aw, stop it, idiot." Mike shoved him, both of them laughing hysterically at their antics. John focused on the path once more, until he heard a hushed curse behind him.

"What?" He asked, spinning himself around quickly.

"Bentley over there," Mike gestured and John nodded for him to continue. "I know him. Big bag of dicks, of course, but it's just _super_ creepy that he's here." Mike shivered. John glanced back to the Bentley, seeing a man in his mid twenties pulling an umbrella out of the backseat of his car. He gestured at the driver and the car rolled away. He began making his way across the pavement and towards the main building.

"Wait, I think know him." John nodded to himself. "Yeah, I think that guy's on the board of trustees or something. He's always around. No one really likes him apparently."

"Fuck, if I knew Mycroft was on the board here, I would never have come." Mike said.

"Don't say shit like that." John said, shoving Mike's shoulder. "If you hadn't come, we wouldn't be having such a fan-fucking-tastic time already."

"Oh, I suppose I could stay for you." Mike cooed, laughing when John sent him a glare.

"Seriously though, _Mycroft_ is his name?" John asked disbelieving. Mike nodded in response. "Bit pretentious, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, I don't think _he_ chose it." Mike joked. "But he is a bit of a git, yes."

"At least I know who to avoid." John shrugged. "Cooper house is this way."

"Cool."

He wasn't saying that he didn't trust Mike. He did, truly. He was like a brother to him, really. But that didn't mean he wasn't a little suspicious when Mike managed to make six friends in the space of one morning, especially when John had spent the majority of his first week lonely as fuck.

"Trust me, man, these guys a cool. They're not murderers of psychopaths or whatever you're afraid of. They just saw my Doctor Who scarf and started talking to me about Tv shows and shit. Really, it's all good." Mike insisted, looking at John with wide eyes.

"Okay." John ventured distrustfully, wrinkling his nose a little. "But just because they like Doctor Who, it doesn't mean I'm gonna like them." John stated.

"Yeah, yeah. You'll like them eventually." Mike waved him off dismissively, chuckling when John wrinkled his nose at him once more.

" _I love them."_ John mouthed to Mike across the table, grinning from ear to ear.

" _Told you._ " Mike mouthed back, smiling too as they both rejoined the conversation.

"Oh Shit! Creepy dude, three o'clock." Bill Murray hissed, pointing subtly. Bill murray was probably John's favourite out of the new friends they'd made. He was energetic and had this almost contagious happiness about him that John liked. John quickly glanced in the direction Bill had been pointing, gasping in recognition when he saw a familiar man dressed to the nines -waist coat and all.

"Yeah, that's Mycroft Holmes. We don't like him." Mike stated flatly.

"Oh, no one does." Sebastian dismissed, shoving a handful of french fries into his mouth. John wasn't quite sure about Sebastian yet. He seemed nice enough, but he couldn't be too be careful.

"He get's people to do the weirdest shit sometimes." Bill explained further, whispering almost conspiratorially. "Usually he just gets people to move around boxes and furniture and things, but once he got Roger to shoot a gun at an office window and James to start a fire in the court."

"What? Really?" John asked. James and Roger nodded in unison, solemn looks passing over their faces.

"He's completely crazy! He can't get people to do that!" John exploded, looking to the elusive Mr Holmes once more in utter shock.

"Oh, believe me, _he_ can." Bill confirmed with a sure nod. "He's got this weird control over the board. Dude _cannot_ be trusted."

"Sounds like the Mycroft I know." Mike muttered, rubbing his forehead like the very memory of the man gave him a headache.

John frowned thoughtfully. This Mycroft dude didn't sound like the type of guy he should be mixing with. John made a vow to himself then and there: He would never interfere with the business of Mr Mycroft Holmes.

"Mike? Are you okay?" John asked wearily. Mike was grinning girlishly at his phone, barely sliding his eyes off it when he spoke.

"'Course I'm okay. Why do you ask?" He answered.

"You just keep staring at your phone." John shrugged. "Is something up?"

"Nah, I'm just texting this wicked girl I met in Bio. She cracks me up." Mike shook his head, looking back to his phone. "Hey, what do you think about compatibility appraises?" He asked suddenly, looking at John curiously.

John winced. His parents had got together after their own compatibility appraise. Let's just say that it hadn't gone very well. It all added to the never ending debate: Fate or choice? Some people think fate should have all the power, that that somehow ensured that everyone ended up with the person they were meant to be with. But others thought that that was completely unfair. "We should decide our future, not wait for the universe to give us what we want" was a phrase he'd heard many a time. He wasn't completely sure what side he was on. All he knew was that his parent's marriage was a complete wreck but without it he would never have been born at all. So there was no harm either way really.

"If you're really sure about her." John answered finally. "I don't think you should ask straight away, though. Get to know her a bit. Just… be certain before you try anything."

"Okay." Mike smiled warmly at him. "Thanks mate."

"You're welcome."

John had never noticed how impeccably bare his ceiling was, but staring at it for a solid ten minutes while lying on his bed and listening to Beck's "Loser" on repeat, somehow made it more apparent than ever. It was just so blank. So empty. Not the good kind either. This wasn't a blank canvas, a place for never ending possibilities to form and grow and create. This was just a brick wall. A dead end.

John sighed. He had no idea why he was so down. It could be many things really. Mike seemed to be hanging out with "Molly from bio" much more often now and he hadn't been spending as much time with him. It's also Uni if he was completely honest. He'd hoped that going to Bart's would be a nice change of pace -new city, new school, new people, new life. But it's all the same. Sure, the routine is different ,but there's still the cramming study sessions, the cliques, the drama, the in-between moments where he has completely no idea what he's supposed to be doing.

John frowned. His mum would have told him to be more proactive, to "figure it out himself". Harry would just tell him to suck it up and stop being such a wuss. John sort of missed her. She was blunt and upfront but that was kind of refreshing compared to the endless line of pleasantries he was used to. It was weird to think that he was finally in the same city as her but he still hadn't seen her since his graduation. She'd showed up just on the edge of being drunk. She was close enough to tipsy to at least be happy drunk, which was good for John because he didn't think that he'd be able to survive another public undressing from his big sister. It was embarrassing mostly. But, when John was alone in his room and really thinking about it, it was mainly sad. Sad that his big sister had turned up that way, that John had no way of fixing it.

 _Knock, knock_.

John broke from his dismal thoughts, raising his head from his pillow to stare at the door silently.

 _Knock, knock._

Sighing, John got up from the bed, pulling on his jersey as he padded toward the door.

 _Knock, knock._

"Yes, yes. I'm coming." John grumbled loudly. He turned the knob and pulled it open, looking up in surprise when the swinging wood revealed a rather large man dressed to the nines with a waistcoat and pocket watch to boot. His eyes were dark and disapproving, his mouth barely twitched into a scowl, his hawk like nose almost menacing. It was frickin' Mycroft.

"What do you want?" John snapped, crossing his arms. The man silently extended his hand, revealing a large envelope, embossed with gold and everything. John opened it, wincing a little as he ripped the expensive canvas paper. John scanned the fancy letters, skipping through the junk about The school board and Honour in order to get to the gist of it. "What does this mean?" John asked in confusion.

"It is a simple invitation to a social gathering occurring tomorrow evening." Mycroft answered, his eyebrows raised like John's question was somehow disapproving.

"I get that. I meant what for? I mean, I haven't exactly done anything." John explained, ignoring how his back tensed at the thought of Mycroft thinking of him as an idiot.

"It remains a simple invitation. It is not compulsory. You simply may come if you wish." The glare Mycroft gave him told John that although Mycroft's words were pleasant enough, not showing up could mean consequences.

"Right." John nodded, awkwardly looking around.

"I will bid you farewell." Mycroft departed with a nod.

"Right." John answered, looking around his bare room once more. "Right."

Dressing up always made John feel uncomfortable. He wasn't sure why, it just made him feel a bit pretentious. The whole process made no sense in his head really. Why should John have to dress up just to meet some other people who would probably be just as happy meeting him in his normal rugby jersey and jeans. They'd probably be a thousand times more comfortable in fact. Good clothes should be reserved for dates, in John's opinion. Impressing a pair makes much more sense than impressing someone he's only just met.

"Suck it up, Watson." John muttered to himself. It wasn't all bad. He could at least stick it out for one night.

Adjusting his blazer, John made his way to the bar, ordering a scotch reflexively and nodding in thanks when it was placed in front of him. He quickly wiped the perspiration from the glass with his sleeve before taking a long sip. He smiled in satisfaction as the liquid seeped through into his stomach.

John could appreciate a good scotch. Before he died, John's grandfather had always sneaked him large gulps from the flask he kept on his hip during the cold nights they went deer hunting together. Well, it wasn't deer hunting exactly. They had simply called it that to get John's dad off their case. No, they never actually hurt the deer. They just watched them. Together. In silence. It was peaceful and beautiful and the memory never failed to bring a smile to John's face.

Looking up from his glass, John caught the eye of a man on the dance floor. He had rather wild dark hair and striking cheekbones that flushed pink under John's stare. John smiled widely. The man was gorgeous. He was absolutely magnetizing.

Downing the rest of his drink, John stood up from the bar and made his way toward the man. John wasn't entirely sure what he planned to do but, then again, he rarely did. He just wanted to meet the guy.

Sadly, just before he could, the snooty sound of a man clearing his throat from beside him stopped John in his tracks.

"Mr Watson?" The man asked.

"Yes?" John answered distractedly, still watching the dark haired man move in small circles on the dance floor.

"You have a telephone call, sir."

"Tell them I'll take a message." John dismissed.

"I'm afraid it's urgent, sir."

"How urgent?" John asked, a bad feeling creeping into his stomach.

"It's your sister sir."

At first, it was simply a beat of silence. Everything was cool and calm, almost serene, all for just that one moment.

And then the moment passed and the world seemed to rush at him all at once, the edges of his vision almost going hazy as he reentered his surroundings. His heart was pounding and he instantly felt like he was going to be sick.

"What happened? Is she alright?" John croaked, so slow compared to the rush of thoughts buzzing through his mind.

"Not quite, sir." The man looked him up and down. "I think it would be best if you leave now, sir."

"Yes, yes. Of course, yes." John's words jumbled over each other as he stopped bothering to pay attention to his tongue and what it was doing. He looked around desperately for an exit, smiling gratefully when the man pointed him in the right direction.

"What are you so upset about? You're not the one that's in this mess." John wanted to beat her. To punch her into a pulp. But he also wanted to soothe her. To brush the hair away from her brow and make her feel whole again. How could she do this to them? How could everything have gone so wrong?

"You're wrong. This is as much my mess as it is yours." John shook his head, gaze travelling to his hands, unable to look her in the eye.

"How so?" She was getting her old funk back. John had almost forgotten what she was like sober. It had been a while. She had actually been a lovely sister growing up. Like she actually cared. Then she'd turned 15 and everything turned to shit and now he was left with broken pieces, so small they no longer fit together.

"Because you're my _sister_ , Harry. My _sister_. We're supposed to take care of each other." John's voice had gone high, thin and reedy but Harry didn't appear to be laughing.

"That's exactly why I don't…" Harry sighed, shaking her head. "I don't want you getting messed up in my shit. I don't want you suffering just because I suffer. I'm not worth it. You have your whole life ahead of you and mine has already wasted away."

"Harry? What are you saying?"

"I'm telling you to stop. Don't bother with me. I'm just number one on a very long chain of anchors that will come into your life and weigh you down. Just unhook me. Let me sink to the bottom so you can sail free. I'm so tired, John." A small tear slipped from her eye, running gently down her cheek. "So tired. I don't think I can do it anymore. So we should both just stop trying. I mean, who are we kidding? Neither of us can fix me."

"Shut up." John spat fiercely. "I didn't go through all that shit with dad and school, only for you to give up now." John leaned in close, looking her in the eye gravely. "We can do this, you and I. Neither of us are giving up. Don't you dare say you're a lost cause. Believe me, you are anything but. Things might be tough but we can deal with it. We'll do it together. I promise."

"... okay." Harry whispered brokenly, another tear chasing down her cheek. "Okay."

John wriggled in his chair, trying to get comfortable once more as he turned the next page of his book. He hated hospital chairs. Plastic junk in his opinion. At least it was better than the floor. John shifted again, looking up when he heard a weak voice.

"You don't have to stay."

"Look, Harry." John sighed. "We've been over this. I'm not gonna go abandoning you."

"Yeah, well, what about uni and stuff? I mean, aren't you missing stuff, being here all the time?" Harry asked, fiddling with the peg on her finger.

"Mike's been helping. He brings me notes and stuff. And he paid some random guy in my PSGM class to take notes for that too." John shrugged. "As long as I get my work done, my professors don't mind so much."

"John…" Harry trailed off.

"Yeah." John encouraged.

"What do you learn in PSGM? I never got the chance to.. Well..." Harry went back to fiddling with the peg.

"That's okay." John said softly, running a hand through his hair before continuing. "Well the subject is mainly in the name, Psychology of the secondary gendered mind. I don't know really. We learn about pairs, about compatibility. Right now we're looking at true pairs. Their level of compatibility, how their minds and bodies respond to each other, that sort of thing." John smiled wistfully.

True pairs were extremely rare. People hardly ever saw them around anymore. People long ago abandoned the notion of "waiting for true love" and instead chose to simply find happiness in those around them. And it worked, for the most part.

"I _would_ like to find my true pair." Harry sighed.

"So would I." John paused, grinning at Harry. "Must be a beast to put up with you."

"Oy." Harry made to sit up and swat John with a pillow but sank back into the cushions almost immediately when she began to cough uncontrollably. The change in oxygen levels set off a low, beeping alarm and the sharp click of heels sounded down the hallway as a nurse was sent to check up on them.

"What were you thinking?" She tutted, reaching behind Harry to fluff her pillows for her. She had short brown hair worn in a wavy bob around her ears and a sweet smile as she leaned over Harry.

"Cough, cough?" They suggested together, smiling a little.

"There, there. Let's have you settled." She soothed with a quiet laugh as she brushed a lock of Harry's hair away from her face. And, all at once, they froze.

At first, John had no idea what was going on. How would he? He'd never actually seen it from the outside before. It wasn't until he saw a thin trail of light slide down Harry's face and around the wrist of her hand that had finally stopped fiddling with the peg. It was then that it occurred to him, outrageous as it was, that fate had a habit of showing up when you least expected. And, sometimes when things are falling apart, they might actually be falling together.

"Hey, Harry." John greeted as he sauntered through the door, plonking his bag on what had become _his_ hospital chair before leaning over to place a kiss on her forehead.

"Hey Johnny!" Harry greeted, a bright smile on her face.

"You look much better." John noticed happily.

"Must be the high-quality care service." A voice behind John joked.

"Hi, Clara." John chirped, turning around to face her. He couldn't help but agree with her comment. Clara had come into Harry's knotted mess of a life and slowly begun untangling and straightening her out. John would call it a miracle if he believed in them.

"Hey, babe." Harry greeted, smiling softly when Clara came and kissed her on the cheek. John was rather taken aback from the couple's progress. They may not have been true pairs but the way they moved around each other, spoke to each other, indicated a level of compatibility rarely met by the average pairing. John would be overcome with jealousy if he wasn't so happy to see Harry at peace for once.

"How's school been, John?" Clara asked seriously, smiling softly as Harry's fingers idly began playing with her hair.

"Great, thanks. Already catching up and I seem to be doing well. My professors seem pleased. Medicine's a hard subject but I'm fairly confident that I'm doing okay." John replied, looking down. That wasn't completely true. To tell the truth, John was feeling a little overwhelmed. He had so much work and not nearly enough time to do it. The work wasn't even particularly challenging, John had always been the top of his class. No, it was the sheer amount, piles of papers and books littering his room's floor.

All John could do is try his damned best try get on top of it. John Watson was not a quitter and he was ready as hell to prove it.

"... And then he's like 'who the hell is that?' and.." Mike paused, waiting for the boisterous laughter to quiet down. "And I was like 'what do you mean?' 'Cause like, how could he not know, right? And he just gives me the most hilarious look ever. It's like the weirdest mixture of confusion, offence and downright embarrassment."

Together, the group laughed uproariously, John looking on in slight bewilderment. Sure, it was pretty funny that a guy couldn't tell who Michael Jackson was, but it wasn't cause for this kind of spectacle. There were lot's of people who chose to distance themselves from pop culture in favour for other things they enjoy. What's so wrong with that?

John shrugged to himself, focusing on the text in front of him once more. He was cramming for a test tomorrow and just couldn't make heads or tails of the subject matter .How was he supposed to remember the names of each and every neuron that fires off in someone's brain during true pair bonding? It was insane.

"Dude, don't sweat it. You can study tonight. It's not even worth a large percentage of your grade anyway." Mike assured, slapping John on the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. That doesn't mean it's not important." John said, eyes tracing back to the thick block of text. Silence fell over the group. John continued smiling at first before frowning suspiciously and glancing up. The large silhouette of a very tall man blocked out the light, the shadow falling across the table. John swallowed hard. This was not what he'd been expecting.

"John Watson?" Asked Mycroft Holmes, not really needing a confirmation but acknowledging John when he nodded his head nonetheless. "Good." Mycroft smirked smugly, looking down his nose at John. "I trust you're enjoying this pleasant morning."

"Yes, sir." John replied hesitantly, looking at Mr Holmes questioningly. People like Mycroft always did take so long to get the point. It would be so much easier if the man just got straight to the point rather than spending all this time on frigid commentary.

"I am here to inquire about a private matter."

"... Right."

"If we could find somewhere more private." Mycroft looked down his nose at John's friends.

"Oh. Of course, I suppose."

"Follow me." Mycroft instructed with a crook of his fingers.

Mycroft lead John across the courtyard to a side building, opening the door and ushering him in. He walked through the halls, up dank and narrow staircases, taking so many turns John's head spun.

"Where the hell are we?" John asked once they finally came to a stop in a darkly lit, square room.

"I cannot divulge that information at this time, I'm afraid." Mycroft answered, tapping an umbrella he held at his side. "I have brought you here to make… an offer, we could say."

"What?" John asked eventually after waiting for Mycroft to continue.

"I have been informed of the unfortunate news that your sister has been admitted to hospital following a rather unfortunate incident involving several bottles of liquor and a tendency to rely on alcohol to solve problems when one can't themselves." Mycroft divulged. John's eyebrows knitted together, fury rushing through him so suddenly he wasn't sure what to do with it. Mycroft had _no right_ , none at all.

"I have also been informed that during the first weeks of this period you have been indisposed for the most part and spending your time aiding in your sister's recovery rather than focusing on your studies." Mycroft paused, looking down at John disparagingly. "And, as I said before, I have an offer to make."

"Which is…?" John asked, fed up and impatient.

"Every missed paper, every catch up article, every future test involving an article you _should've_ studied, they all disappear." Mycroft flicked his fingers like the supposedly disappearing troubles. "Every test an A, every accomplishment achieved, all for this semester." Mycroft smiled proudly, looking down his nose at John. "All you have to do is one little task. Trifle really. Do you accept?"

"You douchebag." John John responded, ignoring Mycroft's flabbergasted face for the moment but appreciating it nonetheless. "Why would you think I'd even consider that? You think I'd just sell out like that? What kind of man do you take me for. I knew the risks when I decided to put taking care of Harry above school, but I did it anyway, and I would do it again a thousand times over. But I'm not going to _cheat_ and get _help_ when I can do it all myself. I want to be a real doctor who really studied and actually tried, not some mediocre one who did everything half arsed and relied on huge dickheads in order to pass their grades. And so, _sir_ ," John spat, watching in satisfaction as Mycroft flinched, " _ **I cannot be bought.**_ "

"Are you quite finished?" Mycroft asked, his left eye twitching the only visible sign that what John had said had made any impact. John nodded in response. "Good. Well, in that case, I have an alternate proposal.

"Goon." John ushered, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"I propose an alternate payment." Mycroft began.

"Oh, really?" John asked sarcastically.

"Yes." Mycroft growled before placing a hand on his chest to calm himself down. "I propose that instead of my previous suggestion, we go for a much more valuable one."

"What?" John asked suspiciously.

"All hospital bills pertaining to miss Harriet Watson paid, in full, no expense spared, for her life time." Mycroft announced. John's heart dropped to his stomach. He hated this guy, despised him, but… Harry. He'd already been stressing about the bills in between stressing about hi mountain of schoolwork. Harry couldn't pay for those bills all herself and John was barely scraping by as it was. He had no idea how the two of them could possibly get out of this mess and if Mycroft was offering…

John racked his brains for any possible solution, some out from this trap, a way to get it all under control and back on track. A way which didn't leave standing right there asking for help from a man like Mycroft Bloody Holmes.

"Do you accept?" Mycroft inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine. Yes, I frickin' accept." John mumbled.

"Ah, quite right." Mycroft remarked, pleased with himself. "In that case, follow me." Mycroft instructed, heading towards the door.

"Wait, you want me to do it _now_?" John asked, confused.

"No time like the present." Mycroft responded, swinging his umbrella.

"Watchit, you'll take an eye out." John growled, pushing the umbrella down and enjoying the look of outrage on Mycroft's puffy face. "Let's go then. The sooner this is over the better."

"Harumph." Mycroft turned and lead the way through the maze of corridors and staircases again, seeming to know every turn like the back of his hand.

"Where are we going?" John asked after yet another turn. Mycroft simply smiled in response. "Well, can you at least tell me what you actually want me to do?" John sighed exasperatedly.

"I need someone to help test the windows in this building. Particularly the third floor." Mycroft answered, still walking steadfastly.

"What does that even mean?" John asked frustratedly.

"There have been safety concerns and it is my duty to right them." Mycroft answered simply. "Ah, here we are. We'll start this level and check this room first." Mycroft instructed, stopping outside the room he'd indicated. John peered through the small window in the door.

"There's a class in there." John stated confusedly.

"No matter." Mycroft informed him, reaching to tap his knuckles against the hard wooden door.

"What is it?" Called a calm voice from inside. Mycroft took that as his cue to open the door and walk straight inside. John hung back outside the door, looking in with wide eyes. The room was filled with a multitude of different students, all either looking at him, Mycroft or the papers on their own desks.

"Mr Holmes? What do you want?" A man with slightly thinning hair and thick rimmed glasses asked from his large desk at the front of the room.

"Continue as you were Mr Hendrix. Nothing to worry about." Mycroft assured.

"Mycroft…" John began pausing at the dark look Mycroft threw him for using his first name in front of a teacher. "I can't go in here."

"Why on earth not?" Mycroft asked.

"This is PSGM." John explained. "It's an oddity class."

"So?" Mycroft asked impatiently.

"I'm a Herculean. I'm not supposed to go to these classes." John said.

"Oh. I wouldn't have guessed that." Mycroft smirked. "No matter. I'm sure Mr Hendrix can allow a special circumstance."

"Uh- well, you see… um-" Mr Hendrix began.

"Perfect. Come on in John." Mycroft turned and strode towards the windows.

John followed after a moment, only one thought striking clearly through his head: _Mycroft Holmes is a bag of dicks._


	5. Chapter 5

_Mycroft Holmes is a bag of dicks._

That's all Sherlock could think as the short blonde man followed the pompous, arrogant idiot into the room. Mycroft had always been an interfering bastard but this was a new low for him. Somehow, once a week, Mycroft had managed to wheedle himself into one of Sherlock's classrooms just to check up on him. He always brought some poor, unsuspecting student in with him, making one excuse or another, but it didn't fool Sherlock for a second.

Sherlock sighed in frustration. How immensely irritating. Looking up, he caught the blonde's eye. There was a faint hint of recollection, perhaps they'd met before? But no, that wasn't what he'd noticed. There was something, some astounding thing, something that could only be…

Sherlock stood up, paying no attention to the sound of his chair scraping noisily against the polished floor. He held the eye contact with the man steadily, breathing gone heavy and heart pounding in his chest.

"Sherlock?" Mr Hendrix asked uncertainly, but Sherlock ignored him entirely, keeping his attention focused. Whatever this feeling was, it was new and exciting and _fascinating_. Sherlock wanted to dedicate his life there and then to exploring it, understanding its possibilities, spending night after night with a crick in his neck as he examined every detail under a microscope.

Sherlock was on fire. Not quite the raging rampant fire that tended to bring down houses and destroy forests, more the quiet flickering of a candle or the humble crackle of a family fireplace. Heat coursed through him, strange and new, but not unwelcome.

In his periphery vision, Sherlock spotted a glowing aura surrounding the two of them, drawing in around them as they both walked closer and closer. Sherlock came to a stop with barely an inch of space between the man and him, not unite touching but close enough that one small movement could send them there. " _Ready?"_ Sherlock asked silently. And, somehow, he could read the _yes_ painted in the man's expressive blue eyes. With a deep breath, Sherlock carefully extended one finger, reaching slowly for the other man's hand. Then, _contact_.

Time stopped for a moment as a rush of feeling flowed through Sherlock's body. It was like he was discovering touch for the first time, learning how human contact felt after going years without it. In his peripheral vision, he saw the room flood with light. _Their light_. It was glorious, and Sherlock was tempted to watch the elegant swoops of gold and blue, but that would mean looking away from the stunning eyes staring back at his.

" _Wow._ " Sherlock breathed, barely audible. The man smiled, his eyes lighting up even further, and it was beautiful, it was encapturing, and Sherlock's entire soul seemed to light up like a lava lamp seeing it. Sherlock had no idea what had suddenly come over him, but he had the sudden urge to rip and tug the man closer, to pull him in and cover his skin with his own. It was an unquenchable need for something, and Sherlock didn't even know what it was.

As Sherlock watched, almost terrified by the wanting inside him, the man's face drew nearer. And suddenly, his lips were on Sherlock's. Sherlock knew he'd done this before. With Victor, of course. Yet, this act seemed entirely new. And better. Much, much better. God, it's hard to think of past experiences when the current ones are _**so good**_.

"Sherlock!" The indignant shout caught Sherlock off guard, both him and the man leaping backwards. They stared around at the gaping faces of his classmates in shock. Awkward. Oh, and there was Mycroft. Actually, recalculation, Sherlock felt a little smug to see Mycroft so flabbergasted.

Mr Hendrix shook his head at the two of them. "Sherlock, I do believe-" Mr Hendrix had taken a step towards Sherlock, when the blonde man (he really should learn his name) let out a surprisingly low growl. Mr Hendrix raised his eyebrows and stepped back, putting his hands up in a peaceful gesture.

Sherlock smirked, tapping on the man's shoulder, turning the blonde man's attention back towards him. "Sorry to interrupt, seeing as you're clearly in the middle of something, but I must ask, what is your name?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh." The man responded in surprise, ceasing his growl. "John Watson." He stuck his hand out. "Pleased to meet you." Sherlock took his hand and shook it.

"Likewise." He giggled. God, it felt like Sherlock was floating on top of the world. The ridiculousness of the situation simply added to the feeling. How ludicrous it seemed to introduce yourself to a man you were just kissing.

"I'm guessing you must be Sherlock." John said flirtatiously.

"Yep." Sherlock replied, laughter dancing in his yes.

John tugged on Sherlock's hand, pulling him closer. "Come." He instructed, turning and running out the door. Sherlock had no choice but to follow him, which he did gladly, giggling madly as the two of them raced down the halls together, headed for the flight of stairs.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, still giggling.

"My room, of course." John said, turning to smile back at Sherlock as he continued to pull him along.

"Of course." Sherlock mimicked, laughing hysterically. John shook his head at him in mock disapproval, continuing forward at a faster pace.

"Out here." John instructed, pushing through a glass door and out onto the courtyard. They raced together, both laughing as everyone stopped to stare at the light emanating from their joint hands. What a spectacle. Strange to think that under any other circumstances, the idea of that many people staring at him at once would be enough to cause a full-blown panic attack. Yet, here he was, running through the crowd without a single care about it.

"This is insane." Sherlock commented as he watched John pull open a different door to another building and race through it.

"Yep!" John exclaimed, still encouraging Sherlock along as they swept through the halls. They took another turn before John came to a stop, pulling Sherlock up with him. "In here."John directed, unlocking the door. Sherlock followed him inside, turning to look around the room with wide eyes. Sherlock had been correct when he'd come here, the other rooms in this place were much better than the Oddities' ones. The paint was clean and unchipped, the appliances all up to date, the ceilings were high, the wooden floor polished. Sherlock felt a pang of jealousy before he dismissed it as nonsense. It was illogical to desire after something he didn't deserve.

"Nice isn't?" John commented in the quiet stillness, standing beside him. "Much better than my old place." He turned his head and Sherlock could almost feel his stare as it raked down his body. He shivered. Interesting. Physical response to an intangible feeling. Fascinating.

A hand on Sherlock's shoulder prompted him to turn his head, eyes widening in surprise when he was met with a soft kiss. He hadn't expected soft. He expected bruising pressure, fingers scrambling down his body like spiders on a web. He wasn't expecting to feel… Happy.

"Wait, is this okay?" John asked concernedly, breaking the kiss to look Sherlock in the eye. "We can stop if you like."

Sherlock leaned back in surprise. John had… Well, asked. It almost struck Sherlock dumb. Victor had never… Just never. Everytime he was pushed down, told to take it, barked orders at… Nothing. It was this same feeling he got whenever he was around Molly. The feeling of knowing that he'd been missing something for so long and he finally knew what it was and how it felt like to have it.

"Yes." He responded hoarsely. "Yes, it's… Yes."

"Okay." John smiled brightly, like he was delighted with Sherlock's response. How odd. John leant forward and kissed Sherlock again, slower this time but with a slight increase in pressure. Sherlock melted with it, allowing his body to press into John's. Not sure what to do with his arms, he simply laid them on John's shoulders, pulling him closer slightly.

"You. Are So. Gorgeous." John punctuated each word with a kiss down Sherlock's neck, pausing to nibble at Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock let out a small sigh, feeling his knees weaken beneath him.

Gentle, easy pushes from John's warm hands guided him to the far corner of the room and Sherlock felt the edge of a mattress his the back of his calves just a moment before he was tipped back onto it. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly at the clean, white paint. Kisses trail down from his neck. Lower, lower and, oh, that's…

"Good." Sherlock breathed.

"Good?" John repeated with a chuckle, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes.

"Yes. Yes, very… good." Sherlock replied absentmindedly as he tried to control the strange noises bubbling up his throat. Sherlock felt his arms being raised and then the cool whisk of fabric as it was removed. Then it was arm air against his skin and even warmer hands brushing down and down and oh, this was nothing Sherlock had ever felt before. Sherlock felt like for once his brain had actually switched off and his body had taken over.

Sherlock tried to focus his eyes, noticing a bright swirl of light dancing above his head.

"John, look!" Sherlock gasped, watching as the colours played with each other, morphing into every shade imaginable.

"I am looking." John replied, his voice gone deep enough to bring goosebumps over Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock glanced at John's face and watched his gaze drink him in. "No, not that." Sherlock blushed. "Up there." Sherlock pointed.

"Oh." John gasped as he watched with wonder at the array of colours. He turned and smiled down at Sherlock. "Beautiful."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. God, John's eyes were captivating, the light in the room reflecting off them to create wonderful patterns beneath his eyelashes. Like and endless kaleidoscope of light.

John grinned down at him and reached down for another kiss. Sherlock loved these kisses. Sweet and tender on the surface but with the promise of more just below. That kiss was followed by another. Then another. And then they weren't just kissing anymore. There were hands on bare hips and thrusts and gasping breaths, grabbing, clutching, pulling and Sherlock's head was spinning, spinning, spinning. He never knew desire to burn this hot, this hard. He needed John everywhere, pressed against his skin to stow the building fire in his veins.

There was no beginning, no end. Time seemed to slow down and, at the same time, speed up. There was no meaning in the world, only heat and friction and the small sparks ignited by touches and whispered words, squeezes and long moans. Tongues tangled together, sweeping back and forth like tides. They pushed and pulled, taking and giving in equal howled at the moon together as they fell apart underneath. Slapping skin and muffled groans created a song that would never end… Until it did. But it wasn't sad. No, it was glorious. A cacophony of sound that built and built until it erupted so loudly that in the aftermath there was no noise, only overpowering silence. Heavy breaths and hushed voices were all that followed. Until slowly, softly, gently, sleep wraps around them in a warm, comforting blanket and they become oblivious to the world once more.

Sherlock awoke to the feeling of a warm pillow pressed against his cheek and warm sheets strewn across his bare skin. Slowly, he reached out his arm, his fingers stretching in search for the other man's skin. When he didn't find it, he finally allowed his eyelashes to gently flutter open. He blinked blearily in the harsh light, squinting as he tried to scan the room for John in his dazed state.

"Hey." The soft voice drew Sherlock's attention to the nearby window where John had paused in his action of dragging the curtains across. It was dark outside, though the campus lights still flooded through the window and lit the room in a hazy glow. John smiled sheepishly, tugging the curtain fully closed, saving Sherlock's eyes so his main enemy was only the nearby nightshade.

"I got you some water."John gestured to the glass on the night stand beside the bed. "Is there anything else you want?" John asked quietly, cocking his head at him slightly. John was different now. Not so controlled. A little shy. A little sweet. A little perfect.

"...No. Thank you." Sherlock mumbled tiredly, rubbing his eyes. He tried to make them focus properly on John but couldn't quite manage it, exhausted as they were.

"It's okay." John chuckled, scratching his head slightly. "Just sleep." Sherlock nodded, his cheek brushing against the pillow, before he burrowed further down within the covers. He allowed sleep to overtake him once more as the light shut off. But not before he felt a dip in the mattress and a pair of strong arms wrap around him in a sweet embrace, guiding Sherlock to the land of dreams with nothing but a tiny smile on his face.

The next time Sherlock awoke, it wasn't in his previous dazed state. His head felt clear, his eyes sharp, like he was back to his normal self. The sound of rustling sheets was crisp against his ear as he moved his head. One deep sniff brought in the clear smell of jasmine fabric softner, skin and sweat.

A deep groan sounded from the other side of the bed as a body turned over, the sheets rustling more as he moved with them. Oh, right. John. Sherlock's heart started beating harder, his breathing elevated. Hmmm. Strange.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to take in his face. John's eyes were scrunched like he was trying to block out the sunlight, with no avail. Slowly, John's eyes peeked open, his body immediately drawing back as he hissed at the light.

"God. Are the curtains open? I thought I closed them." John moaned, a hand emerging from the bedding to rub at his eyes. Sherlock frowned.

"You did." Sherlock froze, his muscles stiffening and his heart racing. Slowly, Sherlock and John sat up and turned towards the voice.

"Oh, fuck." John swore. Sherlock's eyes widened, almost oblivious to John's exclamation. There, by the open doorway. Was once fat, ugly man with his arms crossed and eyes glaring.

 _Mycroft Holmes is a bag of dicks._


	6. Chapter 6

John didn't know what he'd done to piss off the man upstairs, but he couldn't think of one good reason for him to wake up to _Mycroft Holmes_ of all bloody people. Why was he here, anyway? And why the hell was he glaring at him like he'd defiled his sister or something?

"Seriously, Mycroft? My room? Why didn't you bloody undress and climb into bed with me? Can't you see how fucking invasive you're being."

"I'm sorry, is it rude to enter a room owned by the University you're a trustee of?" Mycroft asked, smiling blandly.

"It is when the renter's sleeping in it!" John yelled, causing Sherlock to start slightly where he sat beside him. "Sorry." John whispered to him.

"Don't stop for me." Sherlock grinned back at him. John frowned. Sherlock seemed to be enjoying this a little too much.

"Am I missing something or do you two know each other?" John asked, looking between the two suspiciously.

"You could say that." Sherlock drawled disdainfully.

"Who is he?" John asked him.

"He's my brother." Mycroft answered instead, earning an eye roll from the other man.

"Shit." John swore, eyes scanning between the two. "He's your _brother?_ " Sherlock nodded. "The creepiest man on campus and the biggest douchebag on the planet is _your_ brother?" Mycroft frowned at John's choice of words but he ignored him, instead keeping his eyes on Sherlock as he nodded again.

"The term I prefer to use is Queen Of Douchery. But both apply in the scheme of things." John couldn't help but smile, chuckling to himself as he shook his head before fixing his eyes on Sherlock once more.

"Guess it makes sense: I get the most beautiful man I've ever met for a pair, and he comes with a Mycroft for a brother." There was an exasperated sigh from where Mycroft stood by the door, but John was too busy watching the pretty blush that was spreading across Sherlock's cheeks. John vowed then and there to make Sherlock blush as much as possible. It was just too gorgeous for words and he definitely wanted to see it again, many times over.

"If you'd care to stop ogling each other, I do actually have a message to deliver, and a meeting to attend. Although I find elections stressful at the best of times, I can safely say it's looking far better than standing here watching you two… _flirting_." Mycroft huffed, straightening his waistcoat.

"Go on then." John instructed, turning to him and crossing his arms. "Why the Hell are you here?"

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow before continuing cooly. "We have an appointment at the international registry office, it's not far fr-"

"Hang on, a registry office? How come?" John interrupted, tilting his head.

Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. "Newly found True Pairs must be registered." he explained. "So I've booked an appointment."

"True Pairs? Really?" John asked in astonishment.

" _Yesss_." Mycroft hissed, clearly fed up with navigating this conversation. John frowned. He supposed in retrospect it made sense, their pairing not exactly usual. But still, _True Pairs?_ I just seemed so unlikely.

"Either way," Mycroft continued, adjusting his waistcoat again. "We have an appointment. And afterward we have a meeting with Mr Hendrix."

"Mr Hendrix?" Sherlock frowned. "Is that really necessary?"

"I think it advisable at least. It does pay to do your own research but I hardly believe consulting with an expert could hurt." Sherlock muttered something and rolled his eyes.

"Who's Mr Hendrix?" John asked

"My PSGM teacher." Sherlock explained. Oh. That made sense.

"Fine. When do we have to be there?" John asked.

"One o'clock I should think. It's not far from here." Mycroft surmised.

"Okay, we'll see you there." John confirmed. "Now get the hell out of my room."

"As you wish." Mycroft said, turning and exiting, taking his pompous and infuriating air with him.

"Thank God he's gone." John said, turning to watch Sherlock as his eyes darted around the room, taking in everything until they eventually landed on his face.

"You're very interesting. Did you know that?" He drawled.

"I'm really not." John answered.

"No, you really are." Sherlock's eyes bore deep holes into John's skull, forcing him to keep eye contact. "Look at you. Medical student here on honours on the back of an absent father, distant mother and alcoholic sister. Not exactly the average life." In a moment, it felt like the entire world had turned off all the lights and John had been left to flounder helplessly in the dark.

"W-What did you say?" John asked, staring at Sherlock. This couldn't be actually happening, he must still be asleep. Actually, that would explain a lot about this morning.

"I… I just… I mean…" The man war stammering, his fingers twisting restlessly in John's cotton sheets. John took a deep breath.

"Okay." He said warningly, looking Sherlock in the eye sternly. "Explain."

"Well… I'm sorry -I just…" Sherlock trailed off. " **Textbooks!** " he burst out, John jumping a little in alarm. "I knew you were a medical student because I saw your textbooks. And I knew you were on honours because they send out gold trimmed envelopes to announce it with the school crest printed on it." He gestured first to the tall pile of textbooks on John's kitchen table/study desk, then to the tiny bulletin board John had bought at half price from Debenhams. John had stuck his Honours letter there, along with a few others, open for him to see.

"Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense." John scratched the back of his neck nervously. "But, um…" John cleared his throat. "What about the… the other stuff?"

"Oh, um…" Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I saw that your dad has passed from that photo." He pointed to it, an older one of dad in Afghanistan, uniform in pristine form and a smile like none other on his face. "And those medals." He gestured to the medals and dog tags placed on and around the picture frame. They were a constant reminder of his father, a constant reminder of what kind of person he wanted to be. "No military man would ever part with all of this if he were alive."

"Oh." John smiled and tilted his head. "What else?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I saw you once before, at the honour's party. I thought your mother was sick, but I was wrong, wasn't I? Your mother is distant, barely speaks to you. I saw it because of two things. Number one being the letters."

"What letters?" John asked.

"Exactly! There are none!" He turned to the bulletin board once more. "The few personal letters that are pinned up are all from the same person, your Aunt Dorothy, aside from one which is from a friend from your high school, if I'm correct and judging by the hand. But what is more apparent is what is missing. There are no letters from your mother. You have letters from your _aunt_ and not your own mother: Your mother must be distant."

"You said there are two things, what's the second one?" John asked with a frown.

"Ah, another photograph." He waved his hand towards a picture a little further away. "All the other photos in the room are pointed so they can be viewed either from this bed or your table. That is the only one facing away. It depicts you, your mother and your sister celebrating after your graduation. Of course, one could assume that it is your sister that bothers you but there multiple photos of your sister in here, none that are facing away. There is only one photo of your mother and it's the only one facing away. It is the only conclusion."

John chuckled. "Okay. So… My sister?"

"Well, that one's easy. The sober chip." He pointed to the black One Month Sober chip lying on John's nightstand. "Clearly it's not your's, You don't even keep any alcohol in this place. No, you're holding onto it for some else. Who? Well, let's state the facts. It's clearly someone close to you, you wouldn't go to such lengths just for anybody. Most likely a family member, a friendship would struggle under the strain of this kind of addiction. So family member… Not likely to be your aunt, you're close but she feels a large degree of responsibility for you, hence the letters, and she wouldn't want to burden you with her alcoholism if it were true. Definitely not the kind of relationship you'd be willing to have with your mother. So, who does that leave?" Sherlock didn't pause long enough for a response. "Your sister!"

John smirked. "And I'm guessing that you're not the kind of guy to use one word when you can use twenty. Are you?" He cocked his head at Sherlock mischievously who only frowned in response. "No, but seriously, that… was amazing." Sherlock looked almost affronted, like John had smacked him off his feet. "No, really, that was… Astounding! How do you walk through life with a gift like that and not be astonished by every person you meet. I must look very small to you."

"Proportionally, yes." Sherlock agreed, chuckling when John lightly shoved his shoulder. "But your soul is very…" Sherlock looked him up and down, a look that sent chills down his spine and his heart racing in his chest. "New."

John shivered, coughing and looking around the room. "Well, I, uh, suppose that we should…" He looked at Sherlock and swallowed hard as he noticed the creamy white skin stretched over the collarbones peaking out from the sheet. "Get dressed." He finished.

"Right." Sherlock replied. John watched as he scanned the room. He cringed when he saw Sherlock's crumpled clothes strewn across the floor, interspersed with his own.

"Hey, how about you borrow a few things from me for today?" John suggested, not waiting for a response as he got up and opened a drawer from his nearby dresser, pulling out two T-shirts and two pairs of jeans. "Can you try them on first? I'm not sure what will fit. You're a lot longer than me." Sherlock nodded, oh and there was that pretty blush again.

"Sure." John chucked the clothes at him and watched in amusement as Sherlock struggled to move close enough to get them without letting the sheet slip down too far.

He cleared his throat. "I'll just change in the bathroom." He locked eyes with Sherlock, silently letting him know that he could change out here without John disturbing him. Sherlock nodded again, turning away. John smiled and walked into the bathroom. He changed quickly and decided to brush his teeth while he was at it.

He'd just rinsed out his mouth when he heard Sherlock calling his name.

"Uh, John? I think we have a problem." John stepped back into the room curiously before bursting into laughter, bending over with the force of it.

"Okay, I'll find something else." He said, still giggling as he walked back to his drawers. Sherlock's T-shirt only went to his belly button, while still being too baggy in the sleeves. His jeans looked more like three-quarter shorts, baggier still with Sherlock struggling to hold them up.

John dug through his drawers, locating a nice dark wash pair of skinny jeans and a band shirt that was a size too big for him. He turned away as Sherlock switched clothes. When he turned back, Sherlock was dressed and looked much more comfortable and the clothes seemed to fit reasonably well.

"Would you like a jersey as well? I might have a hoodie your size." He dug through another drawer, finding his old school rugby jersey and pulling it out triumphantly. "Here ya go." John said, handing it to him and watching as he pulled it over his head. "Cool, you warm enough?"

"Yep." Sherlock answered. "What time is it?"

"Ten past nine." John replied after surveying the clock on the microwave. "Do you have anything on today?"

"Not today. You?"

"Just one class, but I suppose I'll be missing it since it's at one."

"So, what do you suppose we do?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I guess there's just one thing we _can_ do." John smiled, "Or rather, one thing you can do."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, head tilted in confusion.

"Let me take you out for breakfast, of course." John smiled. "Although it'll soon become brunch if we stay here any longer." He grabbed his keys, turning to face Sherlock with a smile.

He looked different in John's clothes; sweeter, messier. John admired the deep purple and red stripes of his rugby jersey as they brought out the fairness of Sherlock's complexion and the colour of his eyes. Sherlock had the most wondrous eyes. Everchanging between green, blue and silver, having Sherlock's eyes on him was like being stared at by the aurora in Antarctica.

John hesitated for a moment before leaning forward and up, pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's cheek. He pulled back to see Sherlock looking at him with wide eyes and a small smile, that agonizingly beautiful blush in place. John smiled in turn, taking a step back and opening the door.

"After you." John invited, grinning as Sherlock shuffled past. John followed, closing and locking the door behind him. As he walked along, he noticed the way the hem of his rugby jersey brushed against the back of Sherlock's legs, the white letters of _Watson_ scrawled across Sherlock's arse, looking so right. John smiled to himself, catching up to Sherlock and taking his hand because that, too, seemed just right.

It did turn out to be brunch, after all. They arrived at the bistro a little after eleven. It was small and cozy. John hoped it would be good enough for their first date. Sherlock didn't seem to mind but judging by his brother, their family had a lot of money and were probably used to dining out. John shook his head, berating himself. Sherlock was not his brother and he had no right to judge him that way.

John selected a danish and an espresso before turning to ask Sherlock what he wanted.

"I'll just have the same as you." Sherlock answered with a shrug. John nodded, opening his wallet to scrape together a few pound notes. "Are you paying?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head and furrowing his brow in a very endearing way.

"Of course." John replied.

"...Why?" Sherlock eventually asked.

"Well… Because I'm a Herculean. I usually pay for people's food." John explained. He was so used to doing it that he'd never thought to question the action.

"Why? It's not your responsibility. Most people are quite capable of paying for themselves."

"I dunno. Maybe it's a respect thing? Just a sign that I'm willing to serve you in the ways that I can." John guessed, nodding to himself because yes; that sounded right.

"Well, in that case, you can pay for me now as long as I get to pay for you next time. You have to promise that." Sherlock insisted.

"Okay, I promise." John assured him with a smile. Sherlock smiled too, a tiny thing that lifted John's heart to think he'd put it there. It was because of this that John noticed when Sherlock's expression fell as he gave a tiny shiver, subtly wrapping his arms close around himself. "Are you cold?" John asked, reaching to touch Sherlock's arm before thinking better of it.

"No, sorry, just…" Sherlock trailed off, tilting his head in clear discomfort.

"What?" John prompted.

"I just get really nervous when people make an effort for me." Sherlock admitted in one breath, his head hanging as his eyes dropped to the floor.

"Well, that's okay." John told him plainly.

"Really? No "stop being dramatic." or "that's completely idiotic."? Not even a "well, don't be."?" Sherlock asked, looking back up at John with narrowed eyes.

"Uh… No?" John replied unsurely, picking at his fingernails awkwardly. "Who the hell told you all that?"

"Um… Well… Myself, I suppose." Sherlock mumbled, looking down again as he scratched at his dark brown curls.

"And here I thought _you_ were the smart one." John joked. It earned him another smile, this one brighter than the last. It was like uncovering the sun and John was basking in it. "I suppose we've got to allow for human error."

"That we do." Sherlock answered quietly. John peered at him for a moment, noticing his blank eyes as he stared into nothing. This time, John did reach out and touch his arm, rubbing it gently.

"Hey," John spoke softly, watching as Sherlock's eyes focused back onto his. "Let's go find a place to sit."

"Okay." Sherlock's voice sounded a little ragged, but John bypassed it, knowing that mentioning it would only embarrass Sherlock.

"How 'bout over there?" John suggested, gesturing to the table closest to the window.

"Okay." Sherlock answered. John sincerely hoped it was.

John pulled out Sherlock's chair, helping him settle into it before sitting in his own. "Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?" John asked.

"No, I'm fine thanks." Sherlock replied. John stared at him for a moment before sighing loudly. "What?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm, well, I'm nervous. More than I have been in a while. And I feel like I shouldn't be, that I should just relax already, because it's _you_. This is supposed to be easy. But it's not. And I guess I just hate it because it feels like it's my fault."

"Wow." Sherlock commented. "That's quite...Wow, you're kind of an idiot, aren't you?

"Excuse me?" John asked, rather affronted.

"Important things aren't usually easy to do, John. That's just the way things are." Sherlock shrugged, almost as if his words didn't just cause John to backpedal on every decision in his life. "I'm kind of awful at this stuff."

"I guess I am too." John nodded.

"I bet you're not nearly as awful as me." Sherlock replied.

"Actually, I think you're wrong there." John corrected.

"How so?

"I never know what to say during these things. I usually end up having to listen to someone prattle on about self-absorbed shit."

"Like what's happening right now?"

"Oh, shut up!" John grinned at him.

"Yes, well I do the same thing. Except, I don't pull people's chairs out for them or any of this other stuff. I didn't even know that was a thing." Sherlock stated.

"Really? Because I've had to google "How to be a good date" several times before I started to catch on to what to do."

"Really? Well, at least you've dated more than one person.

John stopped at that. "Really? Only one?"

"Yup." Sherlock nodded.

"Wow. I guess that means you win.

"Yes," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm so glad that I'm horrible at this. I'm afraid I didn't write a speech, but I'd like to thank my awkwardness and my brain who are always there to ruin the chances with pairs I've ever been given." John was laughing terribly loudly, probably attracting a lot of attention from the other patrons, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

"So," Sherlock leaned forward in his seat. "Date expert, what does google say is the next move?

John gulped at that. He thought quickly, picking out the first article that came to mind. He readied himself to recite it, then...

"Two espressos and two danishes, one apricot, one chocolate." The waitress set them down then disappeared the way she came.

"So?" Sherlock asked, pulling his plate towards him.

"So?" John repeated, doing the same.

"So, what does google say?" Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, um." John took a bite of his danish. It was good. "Number one, do something you like." John shrugged. "I like brunch."

"Mmhmm." Sherlock hummed.

"Number two, engage your body as well as your mind." John recited

"Engage your… What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I have no idea."John answered. "Number three, go with the flow.

"What's the flow?"

"It just means to not always stick to the plan." John answered.

"Well, that doesn't make sense." Sherlock grumbled.

"Number four,"

"How many of these are there?"

"Hush!" John tutted. "Number four, date as many pairs as possible.

"I don't think you should be doing that." Sherlock told him sternly, John giggling in response.

"I never said these sources were reliable. Number five, ask the questions they'll love to answer."

"What questions are those?"

"Well, I googled that too, and it said studies, then hobbies, then family."

"Well, at least _that_ makes sense." Sherlock growled. John grinned at him, shaking his head.

"Number six, give yourself good date karma."

"Really? Come on!"

"Number seven, check your bill etiquette."

"Aha! John Watson, this I agree with!"

"Number eight, leave your troubles behind."

"Who wrote this?"

"Number nine, stay informed."

"What does that even mean?"

"And lastly, number ten, wear something they'll be dying to touch." Both he and Sherlock looked down at their clothes.

"Uh, let me see." Sherlock traced an analytical finger down the sleeve of John's shirt.

"Meh." He shrugged.

"I would protest, but I kinda agree." John smiled. "So…. What are you studying?"

"I'm majoring in Chemistry, but I also take anatomy, botany, and PGSM." Sherlock answered, shrugging when John looked at him in shock. "What? They're interesting." Sherlock leaned back in his seat. "So besides medicine, what are you studying?"

"I take PGSM as well, but that's pretty much it. Medicine tends to take up a lot of my time."

"So, you don't play rugby anymore." It was more of a statement than a question, but John answered anyway.

"No, I gave it up after high school. Figured I better study." John grinned. "So, what was it like for you, growing up?"

"Alright, I think." Sherlock replied, wiping flaky pastry from his mouth.

"Do you have a big family?" John asked

"My immediate family is small, but I have a hoard of aunts, uncles, and cousins, great or otherwise." Sherlock answered.

"So it was mainly you, your parents and your brother growing up?" John asked, curiously.

"Mainly. Of course, Mycroft left a lot earlier, him being seven years older. I didn't really see him all that much during high school."

He and Sherlock continued to talk on, asking any questions that came to mind, and if they happened to lapse into silence, it was okay because John knew that he was just as nervous as Sherlock, and he felt Sherlock knew that as well.

John looked at his watch. "Shit, I think we're late." He sighed. "I suppose we should go."

"Okay." They left the bistro, smiling happily as they walked down the street. Out of nowhere, a sleek black car appeared beside them, cruising along as they walked. Sherlock rolled his eye and sighed, walking faster.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking at the town car. The windows were tinted black so John couldn't see through them but he tried to peer through anyway, leaning closer to the car. The door suddenly opened, and John rushed back quickly.

"Sherlock, stop acting like a child and get into the car." Mycroft's annoyed voice called down the street.

"Mycroft?" John asked. What the hell?

"Hello, John." Mycroft replied cooly, straightening his waistcoat. "Would you be so kind to tell my brother to get into the car?"

"I don't think he wants to." John smirked.

"John, we are late. Now, please, grab Sherlock and _get in the car._ " Mycroft finished in a growl.

"Fine." John sighed.

"Congratulations Mr Holmes, Mr Watson, you are now officially True Pairs." The generic office lady announced with a plastic smile.

"As if we weren't already." Sherlock muttered under his breath. John dug his elbow into Sherlock's ribs and tutted.

"Thank you, miss." He turned and walked back to Mycroft, carrying the official certificate thing with him. "Where to now?" He asked, Sherlock drawing up to stand beside him with a pouty expression. John leaned into his side absently, hoping to ignite another of Sherlock's tiny smiles onto his face.

Mycroft cleared his throat loudly. "If you would be so kind as to follow me, I will drive you back to school so we may attend the meeting with Mr Hendrix."

"Sure." John shrugged, following him out to the car.

"Uh, hello, Mr Holmes," Mr Hendrix nodded to Mycroft, "Mr Watson," He nodded to John, "Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is this really necessary, Mycroft?"

"Of course it is." Mycroft cemented.

"I-I have to agree with Mr Holmes." Mr Hendrix nodded at him quickly. "W-we have barely scratched the surface when it comes True Mates in class. I believe further insight would be very valuable to the both of you."

"Fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, John watching on in amusement. "Where do you want to start?"

"Well, I suppose we can start with the process that has already started and how it will progress from here." Mr Hendrix coughed and adjusted his glasses. "As I'm sure you two are well aware of, pairing is commonplace in this day and age. However, True pairings are extremely rare occurrences. They are also far more complex than your everyday pairings."

"Really?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, causing Mycroft to tut disapprovingly.

Mr Hendrix licked his lips and carried on. "The pairing process for True Pairs begins when the two of them think the same thought at the same time within each other's presence." He coughed. "It begins with an Aura that surrounds them, larger and brighter than the normal pairing light most people are familiar with. Then..." Mr Hendrix trailed off, his cheeks flushing brightly as he refused to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

"Then?" Mycroft prompted, raising an eyebrow.

"Then it is the responsibility of the more dominating pair to guide the other to their place of residence. In this case, the Herculean." Mr Hendrix rushed out.

"Wait," John interrupted. "What off we were both Oddities?"

"In the case of two Oddities, they proceed to fight one another to determine who is more dominant."

"Gee, I'm really glad you're not an Oddity." Sherlock turned to him.

"Why? Scared I'd beat your arse?" John snickered.

"No, afraid you'd act like a child after I've thrashed your's." Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, really?" John giggled, leaning closer to Sherlock.

"Really." Sherlock nodded seriously.

An exasperated sigh came from Mycroft, dragging John's attention back to the main conversation.

"Proceed." He encouraged with mock politeness.

"Ah, yes, well once both True pairs to the residence, they proceed to, uh, m-make love." Mr Hendrix was beetroot, John noted. "I believe this is what has… transpired so far between the two of you."

John and Sherlock nodded.

"Where do they go from here?" Mycroft prompted.

"Well, as I said earlier, this process is complex. The progress can be very slow or very fast in different cases." Mr Hendrix continued.

"Yes, but what is the process?" Mycroft asked, rather impatiently in John's opinion.

"Oh well, the True Pairs will learn to be comfortable to one another and slowly adjust to being True pairs. As this happens, their bodies change to form tertiary genders. The recast, as it's most often called. In your case, John will become an Alpha, and Sherlock an Omega."

John looked at Sherlock uncertainly, seeing the expression mirrored back to him. "What does that entail?"

"Uh," Mr Hendrix coughed again. Perhaps he'd caught a cold? "You, John, will develop a… a knot at the b-base of your…" He trailed off with a very expressive hand gesture. "And Sherlock will develop a… a sort of… a…"

"Oh, for God's sakes, my anus will start producing slick like a horny sixteen-year-old girl. Everybody knows this." Sherlock rolled his eyes. John couldn't help bursting out laughing, not bothering to hide his loud guffaws from the rest of the group.

"Uh…" Mr Hendrix stared at them with wide eyes. "Essentially… yes." Mr Hendrix agreed.

"Alright, is there anything else they need to know?" Mycroft asked.

"Ah, yes. When the recast is complete, Sherlock will enter what they call "Heat" and John will go into a "Rut". They will need to be prepared for this with food and water. During their first Heat and Rut, this is when they bond. The strength of their bond is measured by their level of compatibility." He shrugged. "After that, it's all up to fate. You will continue your Heats and Ruts on a cycle which will slow as you age and eventually stop."

He smiled. "That's all."


	7. Chapter 7

" _I suppose we've got to allow for human error."_

The words echoed in Sherlock's mind as he stared down at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen, not typing anything.

" _I suppose we've got to allow for human error."_

The words had stayed in his head since John had reminded him of them a week ago, popping in involuntarily whenever Sherlock had a moment to himself.

" _So, this is the guy you told me about? The one you dated?" She laughed harshly. She was the latest in a long line of Herculean woman Victor had started dating after Sherlock. It was like he was proving a point, dating the complete opposite of Sherlock just to slap him in the face. Always Herculean, always women._

" _Yeah." Victor laughed, wrinkling his nose at Sherlock._

" _Seems a bit unlikely." She commented, her laugh turning into a scoff._ " _ **I suppose we've got to allow for human error."**_

"Shit." Sherlock muttered, coursing his fingers through his head. This was getting him nowhere. He shut the laptop lid with a resigned sigh.

 _Ding!_

Sherlock snatched up his phone, opening it to read the text.

 _ **John:**_

 _ **Hi! Do you want to meet up?**_

Sherlock pondered it for a minute, before typing out his reply.

 _Sherlock:_

 _Sure. Where would you like to meet?_

 _ **John:**_

 _ **Don't worry, the library will do.**_

 _Sherlock:_

 _Okay._

 _ **John:**_

 _ **Great.**_

"Hey, Sherlock." John greeted, sidling up to Sherlock cheerfully.

"Hello, John." Sherlock nodded. Was a nod enough? Perhaps he should smile. Sherlock lifted the corners of his mouth, just in case.

"So, do you feel like eating, or…?" John prompted, twisting from side to side.

"Oh." Sherlock paused, thinking back. He remembered eating breakfast at some point, but that could easily have been yesterday. Maybe he _should_ eat something. "I think I have room for something. What do you have in mind?"

"Cool," John beamed at him. "I know this really great frozen yogurt place, not far from here. Care to join me?"

"Okay." Sherlock agreed, hoping for a relaxed demeanour, but feeling like his excitement betrayed him.

They walked together, their arms brushing against each other with neither making an attempt to move away. It was nice, Sherlock could admit that much.

"So, I was thinking," John reinstated the conversation as if it had never left. "I know we haven't known each other for that long, but we are True Pairs and all that, so perhaps you wouldn't mind meeting my friends, maybe?" John cast a nervous glance in his direction, gauging his response.

"Oh."

"You don't have to! There's no pressure or anything." John laughed nervously, licking his lips. "It's just, we already have plans for the rest of the group to bring their pairs along to meet the group, and they all really want you to go. You don't have to! I just -I'd like it. Well, appreciate it. Even though you don-"

"I'll come." Sherlock decided, cutting off John's rambling.

"Oh. Okay!" John grinned, pressing his shoulder against Sherlock's in a new -yet strangely nice- sort of way.

"Oh. Hey, Sherlock!" Molly greeted, looking up at him with raised eyebrows.

"Yes, hello." Sherlock sat down on the bench beside her, shrugging off his laptop bag with a sigh.

"Are you okay? You seem a little…" Molly trailed off.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped before sighing at Molly's sympathetic face. "It's just. Well, have you met Mike's friends yet?"

"Actually, we were talking about that yesterday. We're gonna do it soon. Apparently, they're all going out for pizza and a couple of the guys who have pairs are bringing them along. Mike thought it'd be a good opportunity for me to get to know everyone. Just in case we… You know." Molly told him with an ending shrug.

"Yeah, well, John wants me to meet his friends soon, too.I just-" Sherlock sighed again, running his hands through his hair and pulling at it in frustration. "You know me, Molly, I'm awful at this stuff. What if I say something wrong? What if I mess it all up? What if," Sherlock gulped. "What if they just don't like me?"

"That sure is a whole bunch of what-if's." Molly commented, raising her eyebrows. "Why don't we just concentrate on what we do know."

"Anf whaff thash?" Sherlock mumbled into his hands, not really caring whether or not he was heard.

"John is your True Pair, Sherlock. Nothing can come between that! John likes you, and John's friends like John. They wouldn't do anything to hurt him, and by extension, you." Molly stated surely. "And you know what else?"

"Whaff?"

"If they do hurt you, they'll have me to answer to." Sherlock looked up from his hands to see Molly grinning wickedly, an evil glint in her eye.

"It's moment like these, Molly, that I'm reminded of why you're an Oddity." Sherlock stated allowing himself a small smile.

Molly smile in return. "It's all going to go fine, Sherlock."

"I hope you're right."

"No need to be nervous, Sherlock." John told him.

"Me, nervous? No, I'm not nervous, you're nervous." Sherlock's betraying tongue jabbered out. Really, he must get his body under control if it was going to continue doing nonsense things like that.

"Fine, fine." John relented. "I'm just saying, if you _were_ nervous."

"Which I'm not." Sherlock reminded.

"Which you're not." John agreed. "But, if you _were_ , I would just remind you that the likelihood of you being rejected by my friends is lower than you hating puppies." John assured him, nudging Sherlock with his shoulder.

"I was bitten by a dog once." Sherlock griped.

"That's a lie." John said, rolling his eyes.

"It is not!" Sherlock insisted, affronted by John's apathy.

"Sherlock, you told me last week about the neighbour's dog you used to play with and how much you wanted one yourself but couldn't 'cause of your mum's allergies."

"Oh." Sherlock blushed. "I… wasn't sure you were listening."

"Well, I was. Now, relax a second." John prompted, the two of them stopping among the foot traffic moving around them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, hoping his silent _why are we doing this?_ Would be correctly interpreted.

"Now, just breathe." John gave a long, deep breath in example. "And remember, everything is going to be o-"

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?!"

"-Kay." John finished his sentence and all the breath rushed out of Sherlock as he turned to see none other than _Molly_ , Mike's arm linked with hers as they stood side-by-side.

"Is that _John?_ " Molly gasped, staring at John in shock. " _ **I can't believe it!**_ " Molly squealed, her pitch reaching octaves only dogs could hear.

"Yes, this is John." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at Molly's carrying on. Rather unnecessary, in Sherlock's opinion. "John, this is Molly and her, uh," Sherlock struggled for moment before settling on " _Friend_ , Mi-"

"Mike Stamford." John chuckled. "Sherlock, he's actually one of my good friends."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked, recalculating the situation. Mike knew John _and_ Sherlock. Strange coincidence, perhaps? Perhaps Molly knew him too. No, she would've told Sherlock, surely. He hadn't told Mike John's name, only Molly.

"Uh, John, does this mean that _Sherlock_ is the True Pair you told us about?" Mike asked, looking between Sherlock and John in confusion.

"Yep." John turned to smile at him, and it set something bubbling up in his chest, like his soul started shining just a touch brighter, sending a tiny, helpless smile on Sherlock's face. Sherlock couldn't imagine getting used to such a feeling for a very long time.

"Oh my God, are you smiling in a way that _isn't_ sarcastic." Mike laughed and nudged Molly. "John's good for him, I think. You've got a keeper, the both of you. Don't you forget it." He told them sternly.

"Why would we forget…?" Sherlock asked in confusion, but Mike just shook his head with a laugh.

"So, you know Sherlock well, then?" John asked.

"Oh, we went to high school together." Mike said, his smile turning a touch sympathetic. Sherlock balled his hands into fists and breathed deeply. He _hated_ that look. It was just a reminder of all the shit Sherlock's trying to **forget** , God dammit.

"Yep." Sherlock said, hoping the subject would pass, and breathing a sigh when it did.

"So are you guys ready for this?" Molly asked, shuffling nervously as her hands flutter by her side. "Because I don't think I am."

"I'm fine." Sherlock sniffed disparagingly.

"Or, so he says." John chirped, grinning cheekily when Sherlock turned his glare on him. "Don't worry, sugar," John laughed, "We'll be gentle."

Sherlock harrumphed and folded his arms, but the effect was kind of lessened when he felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. "Let's just go. _Now._ "

"Cool, it's just down here, John directed. The four of them walked down the street in a large group, John silently taking Sherlock's hand as if it was the simplest thing the world. And, perhaps, it was.

Sherlock's heart began to pound as he walked through the doors, stopping behind the other three in a valiant attempt not to be noticed. Sadly, as John and Mike were greeted with cheers and slaps, they began to disperse, leaving Sherlock exposed to the eyes of all of John's friends. There was quite a few of them, too. Mike chose that moment to introduce Molly to the large group, giving Sherlock a few seconds of reprieve to look everyone over.

Twelve of them sitting down, greeting Molly kindly. Four females, eight males. Six Herculeans, five Dociles, one Oddity. Law majors, business majors, teaching degrees, Undecideds, engineers, psychology majors, and more undecideds. All of them looking straight at him, Sherlock was sure of it, their eyes boring deep holes into Sherlock's skull, silently demanding why the hell he was here. Sherlock was lost for an answer. He didn't do well in these situations, surrounded by a group of people who all knew each other. He was the odd one out, the outsider, the sore thumb. He wasn't going to live up to expectations, they'll see it the moment he opens his mouth. God knows what will happen when he does that. He knows what happened when he lets facts slip from his mouth, tumbling over and over like a snowball, growing bigger and bigger until it crushed every single one of-

"...And this is Sherlock." John introduced, time continuing at perfect pace at the sound of his voice. Sherlock stepped closer to his side, still watching the group nervously, deliberating about what he should do with his hands. Should he be acting demure? John _is_ the Herculean, Sherlock should probably act more like a Docile. Maybe that would impress John's Friends, make him seem worthy. Sherlock lowered his gaze and batted his eyelids, copying the movements his mother made when approaching new crowds. John looked at him funnily though, so Sherlock quickly stopped.

"It's great to meet you, Sherlock." A man stood up, shaking Sherlock's hand firmly. "I'm Bill Murray." Bill Murray had short cropped, platinum blonde hair with shaved patterns on the side, offsetting the warmth of his dark brown skin tone.

"Hello." Sherlock said quickly, shutting his mouth tight to prevent anything else slipping through. He could ruin this today, it was too important.

"Let me introduce everyone." John said, indicating around the group's table as he spoke. "There's Bill, of course, then Sebastian, Tom, James, Roger, Sam, Daze, Harold. And I suppose the rest are their pairs. I'm sure they'll introduce themselves" The group all greeted him, smiling.

"Come, sit here." Sherlock obliged, following John to the end of the end of the long table. He sat with John on one side and Molly on the other, flanking him like knights in shining armour.

"So, Sherlock." A man, Tom Sherlock thought, began. He had an old school jersey on, The name _Dimmock_ branded on it in large white letters. "What are you studying?"

"Oh. Well, my main focus is in chemistry, but I also have an interest in anatomy and botany, as well as-"

"Oh, Tom, at least ask him something _else_." Bill groaned. "So, Sherlock, how did it happen? John's barely told us anything."

"John walked into my PSGM class." Sherlock answered. He'd already replayed it a thousand times in his mind. Eyes meeting across the room, the electric feeling coursing through his body, the sheer _light_ pouring from their bodies like waves from the ocean.

"Oh, look at him, getting all dreamy." The girl next to Bill sighed, setting her chin in her freckled hands. "What I wouldn't give for a bond like that."

"Hey!" Bill protested.

"Hey yourself." She smirked, flicking a strand of her long, orange hair at him. Bill huffed indignantly.

"So Mike tells us you're an Oddity. A match made in heaven, he says." The man next to John said, waggling his eyebrows. Sebastian or something, the business major.

"Uh, yes, well," Molly squeaked, eyes dropping to the table nervously. "We can't be certain of that yet, but… here's hoping?" She searched Mike's face for confirmation, smiling happily when he nodded.

"How'bout you, Sherlock?" Bill asked. "John really has told us nothing. What's your SG?*"

Sherlock paused. He hated this question. He could just take the answer away and hide, never letting anyone see him as he was. _Oddity is just a polite word for freak._

"He's an Oddity." John had gone ahead and answered for him, like nothing was amiss with that comment. Sherlock looked around the table. Everyone seemed fine with it. Perhaps there was nothing to wor-

"What? An Oddity?" Sebastian let out a mocking laugh, the force of it prickling up the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck. "You can't be serious."

There was a moment where the whole table was silent, tension palpable in the air as all the sectioned off conversations stopped. Sherlock studied his shoes miserably. He should have known better than to expect anything good from John's friends. Sherlock didn't deserve it. To think that he'd tried so hard. God, he should've known better.

"Sebastian?" A voice growled out. Sherlock looked up, expecting to see John, angry face in place. Instead, he was met with a group of them, the rest of John's friends glaring daggers at Sebastian.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bill asked, fists clenched on the table.

"Oh, I'm sorry if you think there's something wrong with wanting a little better for John. I mean, he's a _Herculean_ , for Christ's sake. He's not an oddity, like Mike. He needs someone who'll submit, not someone who'll parade around, pretending like he's just as good as us." Sebastian snarled.

"Get out." Bill groundout.

"W-what?"

"I said, get the hell out. If that's what you really think about Oddities, well, we don't want you here." Bill told him firmly, folding his arms with an air of finality.

"Fine." Sebastian stood, turned and left, muttering obscenities until the sound of the door swinging shut cut them off.

Sherlock glanced towards Mike and Molly, who looked on with a mixture of shock and disgust. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder and turned his head to see John looking at him concernedly.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Fine." Sherlock replied faintly. He could barely process what had just happened. Had John's friends just… Defended him? Why? What could they have possibly gained from that? It didn't make any sense.

"'Kay. Well, let's order."

"Fine." Sherlock repeated. This couldn't be happening, this casual passing over of such a profound incident. Sherlock's heart was beating wildly and when he looked over the table, he felt like he was looking through smoke. "I'm just going to… I just need to use the bathroom for a moment." Sherlock rose and made a beeline for the Oddity bathrooms, not looking back. He didn't really need to, seeing John's friends' faces in his mind as clear as day, a mixture of shock and pity. And worst of all, John's. What the hell was he going to think?

Sherlock shook his head, pushing through the door and standing in front of the mirror. He cupped his hands under the tap, filling them with water, before he brought them up to his face, dragging them across his skin and letting the water slide down with them.

Blinking the water from his eyelashes, he looked back up into the mirror with a sigh. Then he froze.

"John?" He whispered, turning around to face him.

"Sherlock." John nodded in greeting. "Look, Sherlock, I'm really sorry about what happened out there. Just… What can I do to help this? What? Please."

"W- I…" Sherlock's voice cracked and he was forced to lower his eyes.

"What?" John insisted. Sherlock couldn't find the strength to reply. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, truly sorry. I had no idea why he would-"

"When I was-" Sherlock started, his voice quiet and ragged, just enough to stop John's words. "I…" Sherlock sighed, looking skyward in frustration. Why the hell was this so hard? Why?

He took a deep breath, determined to try again. "In my last year of high school, there was someone I knew, someone I… I trusted." John nodded for him to continue. "And he told me… He…" Sherlock sniffed, his face screwing uptight. **No!** He screamed at himself. He couldn't let himself crack like this, he just couldn't. "He said that… ' _Oddity' is just a polite word for freak._ " Sherlock rushed out, looking at John. A tear slipped from his eyes and he angrily wiped it away.

"' _Oddity'_ _is just a polite word for freak. That's all you are. A freak. And this is just what freaks deserve. You can't blame me for that now, can you?_ _ **Can you?**_ " _Victor shouted the last question in his ear, Sherlock wincing in response and shaking his head to clear it. "Thought so."_

"And I… I actually believed him."

At first, John was a blank slate, his eyes devoid of emotion, his mouth a straight line. Then, all at once, it crumpled. Sherlock watched as John buried his face in his hands, dragging his fingers through his hair.

"Fuck. Sherlock, I… You.." He suddenly looked up, levelling Sherlock with a strong stare. "That is not true. And I'm gonna do whatever it takes to convince you. And I know you're probably thinking "what the fuck does he know?" but I'll tell you what I know. I know that when you're in a room, you make it brighter. That you have an endless source of compassion that you show when people need it most. And I know that it's the Oddities who decide what the word means, not some loser who obviously wasn't hugged as a child."

Sherlock's face split into a small smile. "Okay."

"Good." John nodded, sniffing hard. "Now come back so you can eat some pizza."

"Okay."

"Really? You've _never_ played laser tag?" Bill asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Well, I never really had the opportunity." Sherlock explained. He didn't quite understand the big deal.

"Man, you have been missing _out._ " Bill groaned.

"On… laser tag?" Sherlock asked, incredulously. He wondered briefly if this pizzeria was serving beer, but no, that was surely water presiding in Bill's glass.

"Yeah, man." Bill nodded enthusiastically. Sherlock turned to John, who simply shrugged and tipped his head, almost saying _this is just how it is, I can't explain it_.

" Okay. Perhaps… perhaps I will try it sometime." Sherlock allowed.

"Aw, man, that'd be great!" Bill exclaimed, smacking his hand on the table. "Ooh, we should do it today!"

"Oh, uh," Sherlock looked at John again, who shrugged and nodded as if to say _yeah, we got time._ "I suppose that would be alright."

"Awesome." Bill turned to the rest of the group. "Hey! Anyone up for some laser tag?"

A chorus of hoots and yeses followed, Bill turning to Sherlock with a grin.

"Guess that means we're playing laser tag, mate."

"I guess so."

**"

"Okay, so now that everybody knows the rules, it's time to get suited up. You can divide yourselves into two teams, blue and red, and put on the corresponding light jacket. Okay, troops, move out." The instructor boomed.

"C'mon, follow me." John prompted, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him through a door labelled _armoury_. "Red or blue?" John asked.

"Blue." Sherlock decided, following John over to the blue jackets. John helped him into it, showing him how the gun works and where on the jackets to aim. Sherlock, in turn, helped John into his, tightening the straps for him. "You look good." Sherlock whispered, ducking his head.

"You too." John winked, taking his hand and leading him through to the arena.

It was dark inside, Sherlock taking a few moments to adjust his eyes. He and John walked together towards the blue base, where the rest of the team was gathering as well.

"Do we have a plan?" Sherlock whispered into John's ear as they waited for the starting bell to ring.

"Not really." John admitted. "But you stick with me, we'll be fine."

"Okay." Sherlock shrugged.

"You gotta have my back though." John nudged him.

"Of course." Sherlock scoffed.

"Cool."

Fifteen minutes. Only fifteen minutes, and it was all over. Sherlock gasped for breath, pushing his fringe off his sweaty brow. Fifteen Minutes of John being _amazing._

Every twist and turn, catching people from far away before he moved in. Sherlock was there every step of the way, watching as John took people down repeatedly, sending everyone back to their base again and again. Sherlock had no idea that John would be such a good shot. It was exhilarating to watch, rushes of heat flooding Sherlock's body as he thought of it.

It was beautiful, it was astounding, it was… Sexy. Sherlock blushed to admit it, but he couldn't help acknowledging that the pounding of his heart and sweat beading on his back wasn't fully caused by the exertion of laser tag combat. It was John, pure and simple. He had taken control, dominating the game with a skill Sherlock had never seen before, and it fitted him like a glove.

Sherlock hadn't thought that any of the overpowering lust from their first meeting could truly return, but after watching John being so confident and sure of himself… Maybe it was possible?

"You want a drink, Sherlock?" John's voice broke through Sherlock's thoughts.

"Uh, yes. T-thank you, John." Sherlock said, struggling to calm his still burning cheeks.

"No problem." John assured him with a smile. A smile that set Sherlock's heart pounding all over again.

 _Oh, no,_ Sherlock thought. And rightly so, Because Sherlock Holmes had it _bad_.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

*SG= Secondary Gender.


	8. Chapter 8

_Buzzz_.

John smiled, pushing open the door to the apartment building, pulling his backpack higher on his shoulders. He went up the stairs eagerly, a smile already spreading across his face. Knocking on the door of the third story apartment, John waited patiently for a response.

"It's open!" A voice called from inside.

Obligingly, John opened the door, toeing off his shoes politely before he turned the corner into the kitchen-dining room-lounge area.

"Harry?" John called, looking around for his sister's curly head.

"Johnny!" She crowed, appearing from a room to his right and tackling him to the floor.

"Harry! Stop it!" John groaned as Harry kissed his cheeks and giggled.

"Aw, you're no fun," She sighed, getting off him anyway.

"Is that John?" Another voice called, footsteps sounding along the hardwood floor as Clara, with her swinging bob and wide smile, came round the corner. John smiled in return, standing back up to give her a hug. Clara pulled back with a grin, stepping to Harry's side and taking her hand.

A small ring of light looped around their index fingers, and John tried his best to tamp down the blush that rose to his cheeks. It seemed Clara and his sister had already… begun 'informal bonding rituals'.

Coughing a little, John forced a smile, looking between the two women with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

"So… How are you two doing?" He asked, flinching internally at the squeak in his voice.

"Oh, we're just fine," Clara assured him, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Harry here is on her way to a full recovery."

"Fuck yeah, I am!" Harry exclaimed, pumping her fist proudly. John's smile turned a little more genuine. It seemed all the small cuts and bruises on Harry's face had all disappeared, and John didn't doubt that with Clara's help, she would be completely healed in no time.

"Well, I'm happy to hear she's in such capable hands." John nodded gratefully.

"Hey! Stop flirting!" Harry hissed, slapping John's shoulder.

"I'm not _flirting_ , I'm _thanking_ her. I have a _pair_ , for Christ's sake," John cried indignantly.

Harry stopped in her tracks, tilting her head with a mix of shock and curiosity. "You have a _what?_ "

John gulped. "Look, I was gonna tell you sooner, but-"

"You have a _pair?_ " Harry squealed excitedly, Clara's eyes flashing with affection as they gazed at her.

"Well…" John trailed off. He _did_ come here to tell her, didn't he? "He- he's more like a _True_ pair."

Silence pervaded the apartment as two sets of eyes blinked at John, nonplussed.

"You- You _what?_ " Harry spat, gaping at him incredulously.

Clara continued to blink at him for another few moments before she finally seemed to settle on something to say. "Congratulations John. You're one of the lucky ones."

This appeared to spur Harry into action.

"I'm so proud of you, Johnny! Look at my baby bro, all grown up!" She pulled him into another hug, squeezing too tight and causing John to wease. "I can't believe you've found your True pair!" She pulled back, a wicked grin on her dark lips as she waggled her eyebrows. "We all know what that means, don't we?"

John scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Of all the things you learnt in school, I can't believe _that_ is the piece of information you remember."

"Really? I can," Clara huffed, raising her eyebrows.

"Hey!" Harry grouched indignantly before shrugging and nodding, as if to say ' _yep, you're right'_.

"So…" She continued. "Do ya have any pictures of this Mystery man?"

"Well, he certainly is a mystery, I'll tell you that," John huffed, smiling as the image of Sherlock's genuine smile when he'd discovered a hoard of dead cockroaches living in a hole in John's wall. He'd taken them home and _everything_.

"Aww, lookit, Johnny boy's all love-struck,' Harry cooed, pinching his cheek.

"Shove off," John griped, scowling at Harry until she took a step back, her smile unfaltering. He dug around in his pocket, pulling out his phone.

"Here, he's my lockscreen." John held the phone up, handing it over to Harry reluctantly.

"Aww, it's cute," Harry commented. John smiled.

The photo had been a lucky snap, to say the least. The group had just won a very informal match of rugby, organised against another group of Bart's students Bill knew from one of his law classes. Someone (John wasn't sure who, but he'd bet his life it was Roger) decided it would be funny to bring a glitter bomb to celebration party (the term 'party' being used extremely liberally as it was basically everyone sitting around with beers and pizza, talking). When the glitter had exploded, everyone had been _covered_ with it, the sparkling pink confetti falling like rain. John had turned to see Sherlock contemplating a stray confetto as it rested on the tip of his nose, his wide eyes and perplexed expression so captivating, John couldn't resist taking out his phone and snapping a shot. John had never seen someone blush so quickly in his life.

"I have a bunch of others too, if you'd like to see them," John offered the girls, holding his hand out for his phone. He unlocked the screen, quickly opening his album and scrolling to the end so they could start at the beginning.

"Are _all_ your photos of this guy?" Harry snarked, snatching the phone away the moment John went to hand it back.

"His name is _Sherlock_ , and yes," John told her.

"Sherlock. Interesting name," Clara commented, peering over Harry's shoulder as she swiped through the photos.

"I think so," John agreed jovially.

"Woah, he can play the violin?" Harry questioned, eyes wide as she looked to John for confirmation.

"Yep." John nodded, leaning around so he could see what photo they were up to.

Ah, the first time Sherlock had played for him. Sherlock had been so _jittery_ , hands shaking as he told John over and over that he ' _was hardly a professional'_ and he ' _understood'_ if John didn't ' _like it'_. Like John could ever hate anything that was crafted by those beautiful, long-fingered hands. And, as expected, Sherlock had been _amazing_ , absolutely breathtaking, John hanging off each note, even as their deep moroseness sent a sinking sadness into his gut. He'd actually cried. He'd cried about a song with _No. Lyrics._

John sniffed. Even thinking about it turned him misty, apparently. "If you swipe, I have a video."

Harry obliged, the melody soon playing out of the phone's speaker, the beautiful song reduced to something strained and tinny when played that way. John certainly preferred the original.

He was broken out of his wistful thoughts by Harry's characteristic snort. "Um, John." She turned the phone around. "Why are there pictures of dead cockroaches on your phone?"

"God _dammit_ , Sherlock!" John bleated, snatching the phone away and promptly deleting all _ten_ photos of the bugs, each taken from different angles.

"Gee, I was expecting nudes for sure, but this is a whole nother level."

John glared at her. "Here you go." He handed the phone back with a huff.

Harry went back to swiping through, pausing and smiling at a lot of them. John wondered which she liked best. The ones of them getting ice cream? Them in Regents Park? The one with Sherlock sitting upside down on the couch, hands poised beneath his chin in a mimicry of prayer?

"Oh, there's another video," Harry commented. The sound of a car rumbled through the speaker, and John tried to remember what video this was.

" _John! John!"_ Sherlock's low voice called softly through the speaker. " _Hey, John."_

" _Hi, Sherlock,"_ his own voice rumbled out.

" _Hey, John, if you could be an animal, what would you be?"_ Sherlock asked. He appeared to be lisping. John's eyebrows rose as he remembered where this was from, his lips curling into a smile instinctively.

" _I don't really-"_

" _I'd be an octoputh,"_ Sherlock exclaimed. Yup, definite lisp. " _That way I could wrap myself all around you and just hold you forever."_

Sherlock had just had a dentist appointment where they'd removed a couple wisdom teeth and put him under some general anesthesia. It seemed the drug had made Sherlock into a loopy, cuddly bear cub, who'd stuck his curly head under John's chin as he'd nuzzled his neck. It had been so sweet, and John had never felt luckier in his life.

" _You kinda look like an otter to me,"_ Phone-John commented.

" _Okay, but only if I'm_ _ **your**_ _otter. No one else can have me."_ Sherlock told him insistently.

" _I think I can agree to that."_

* * *

John climbed the steps to Sherlock's dorm, huffing to himself that the building should get a damn elevator already before people start dying of heart attacks. He then realized it was probably about time he started getting working out again.

He smiled when he saw the light permeating from beneath his door, happy to see that Sherlock was still awake.

"How's the smartest man in the room?" John asked in greeting as he strode inside.

"Now, _there's_ a compliment I can appreciate," Sherlock smirked, looking up from his laptop before promptly pushing it to one side.

"That was a rhetorical question, seeing as I am _clearly_ the smartest man in the room," John joked, throwing him a wink as he made his way to the bed where Sherlock was lying. It was nice to see him relaxing so comfortably, John had been rather worried that the man's stress would persist.

"Oh, I'm so very sorry for making assumptions. Only, I've _seen_ your work and…" Sherlock trailed off with a grin.

"Oh, shut up." John poked Sherlock's shoulder jokingly before flopping down beside him.

"Make me," Sherlock singsonged, eyes twinkling as something fluttered in John's stomach.

"You forget, Sherlock," John began warningly. "I know all your weak spots."

"Is that so?" Sherlock mused, raising his eyebrows as he settled his chin in his palm with mock-interest.

"Of course."

"I don't believe you," Sherlock claimed, his grin a clear challenge.

Game on.

John dived for Sherlock's stomach, tickling him ferociously as the man squealed.

"John! John!" He cried, peals of laughter wracking his ribs.

"I'm not stopping until you _beg_ ," John growled, moving lower to tickle the backs of Sherlock's knees.

"Never! Never!" Sherlock cried around his giggles, limbs flailing.

John moved lower, concentrating on Sherlock's feet with tiny brushstrokes of his fingertips against the arches. Sherlock looked like he was fitting, he was so hysterical.

"See, I told you, I know all your we-" John was cut off by Sherlock's arched foot smashing into his face.

"Ouch!" John complained, sitting up abruptly to glare at Sherlock's twisting form. "Sherlock!" John yelled, snarling when Sherlock continued to giggle and reached up to pull the man's hair. _Hard._ A moment later, they both froze, looking at each other with wide eyes. "Oh my God, Sherlock! I am so sorry! I totally forgot about your head thing."

"Sensitive hair follicles," Sherlock supplied.

"Yes. Exactly." John looked down at his feet and up again. "If you want me to leave, I can just…"

"No!" Sherlock interrupted quickly. Sherlock swallowed thickly. "C-can… you d-do it again?" The question was so tentative, he wasn't sure he'd heard it right. But that's when he finally properly looked at Sherlock and realised what was happening. Sherlock's eyes were large pools of black, his hands were clenched in the bottom of his T-shirt while his chest moved heavily, breath after breath escaping him.

"Oh." John swallowed thickly, still looking Sherlock up and down while the man stared straight ahead. "Y-yes." Slowly, John reached up to Sherlock's head, grabbed a tight hold of his curls, and _pulled_. Sherlock gasped, his eyes fluttering wildly.

"Again?" He whispered. John pulled again. Sherlock immediately whimpered, a sultry, alluring whimper that John just couldn't handle.

"Oh, fuck." He immediately buried his face in the pillows behind Sherlock, breathing deeply. He didn't mean to swear in front of Sherlock but something about that was just overwhelming. John groaned quietly into the pillow.

"J-john?" Came a quiet voice. John nodded against the pillow. "A-again?" John nodded once more, pushing himself so he was sitting in front of Sherlock again. He carefully reached out for Sherlock's curls giving one strong _tug_. This time, Sherlock moaned, loudly, and it was like John's body was coming alive.

"Fuck, Sherlock? Can I kiss you?" Sherlock nodded in response and John immediately pulled him in. Liquid lava rolled through him as he felt Sherlock's fantastic bow shaped lips against his, his shy and tentative tongue creeping along his own. Sherlock's taste was addictive, like having a fountain of chocolate at his disposal. Smiling into the kiss, John used the hand in Sherlock's hair to pull again. _Hard_.

Sherlock immediately arched up with a snap, his hips pressing against John's. "Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, breaking the kiss to bury his head in Sherlock's shirt. It smelt amazing there. Like he was ready for whatever was to come. It was beautiful, mesmerising. "You smell so good." John groaned aloud.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered shyly.

"No, I mean it." John sat up, abandoning his urgent need to press closer and closer, to have Sherlock in every way that was possible and more. This was important. "It's like everything about you is tailored to fit perfectly with me. Your smell, your taste, your looks. The way you think, the way you act, the way you move. It almost scares me, because how can someone be so perfect? It all seemed so impossible before I met you. Yet… Here you are." John sighed and reached out to stroke Sherlock's hair softly, a sharp contrast to their earlier actions. "You changed my old, boring life and actually made something of it. And I don't ever want to go back."

"Thank you." He whispered. John nodded.

"And hey, I know we were sort of in the middle of something." John began quietly, his soft smile still in place. "But maybe we could postpone that and… and maybe cuddle instead?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, smiling too now. John carefully laid down next to Sherlock, pressing against him and just holding him securely in his arms.

"I love cuddles," Sherlock whispered quietly.

"I know," John whispered back. "Me too."

* * *

Two weeks later found John urgently knocking on Sherlock's door, shoulders tensing in worry as he waited for some form of reply.

Nothing.

He knocked again, louder.

Still, nothing.

He went to knock another time, stopping short when he heard a grumbling voice call "It's open."

John slowly edged the door open, peering hesitantly inside. All the lights were out, the curtains were drawn, and the rise and fall of a duvet shaped lump on the bed was the only sign of life he could see.

"Sherlock?" John called. A hissing from the lump was his only response. "Are you unwell? Can I do anything to help?"

Slowly, a hand emerged from the covers, the index finger crooking in a come-hither motion. John slowly made his way to the bed, laying down next to the bundle of fabric. He hadn't laid down next to Sherlock since the tickling incident, terrified that he'd cross a boundary again and push Sherlock too far. He'd been lucky that the response was positive last time, but that didn't guarantee a recurrence should he stumble again.

"Sherlock," John murmured hoarsely, straining to keep his voice low as he lifted up a flap of the duvet, peering inside at Sherlock's dark, curly head. "Are you okay?"

"Migraine," Sherlock mumbled, his eyes remaining firmly shut.

"Oh," John frowned.

"Don't worry. I get them a couple times a month," Sherlock informed him.

"Really?" John asked, nervous all of a sudden. He and Sherlock had been together for almost two months now. Surely he would have noticed…

"They stopped for a little bit when I met you," Sherlock answered John's unspoken question. "I don't know if it was the bonding setting something off in my biology, or if your mere presence just makes me feel… Better."

"It could be both," John supposed, rather breathless at the idea of having such a strong effect on Sherlock's psyche. He desperately wanted to look after his Pair, and if he'd been helping him already just by staying near… then John was the most thankful man in the world.

"Your quite right," Sherlock murmured.

John gulped. "Is there anything I can do?" John asked.

"Stay," Sherlock answered. "And… Hold me."

"Okay," John breathed, keeping Sherlock's head shielded as he slowly wrapped himself around the man's lanky body. Hesitantly, he reached a hand up, carding his hand through Sherlock's hair softly and slowly.

"Is this all right?"

"Yes," came the rumbling reply, much like a cat's purr. John allowed himself a small smile, continuing to pet Sherlock gently.

"Promise… Promise you'll text me every time this happens," John pleaded. "I want to be here for you.

"I promise."


End file.
